Sharing Our Shit Saturday 9th March

This week I have been reading thigs that were hot and things that were thought provoking. I will start with the latter. Here are a few reflections by Coffee and Kink on friendship and some of the difficulties that those of us who are into BDSM, or blog about sex or whatever, can have in connecting with people when our lives are necessarily compartmentalised  and we can’t be really ourselves with everyone. This is now actually less of a problem for me. For one thing boundaries have been blurred by, for example, people I originally met on the kink scene turning up (in a totally good way) in my vanilla life. There is also my age. I have decided that I really don’t give a ……. what people think of me and am quite open with most people about who I am.  But this, I understand, may not be an option for everyone.  And it is totally liberating to be with people you can talk about the important stuff with, one reason why I am so looking to Eroticon next weekend.

Which leads onto Emmeline Peaches’ reflections on International Women’s Day and being a sex positive woman and writer and on being herself and proud of it. I spent last night out drinking with a diverse group of women, straight, bi, queer, of different ages (all younger than me though!) but all amazing people I am proud to call friends. I found it totally affirming and Emmeline’s piece really spoke to me.

This week saw the start of the 2019 Euphoff  for deliberately bad erotica and I posted my entry here. I guess there will be many more equally cringe-inducing pieces to come by the end of the month and you can find links to them here as well as details of how to enter. Do have a go. It is fun and a liberating experience because if what you write is rubbish, well, that is the whole point isn’t it?

I guess I am not alone in spending ages getting ready. And, to be honest, I enjoy taking my time, sipping a gun and tonic as I ponder the key questions, what eyeshadow, what lipstick will go best with my dress,  wondering whether I will finally get my eyeliner right this time? There are, of course, other ways of getting ready as this piece of flash fiction by Jayne Renault shows.

And finally, back to chastity which is kind of where I started last week’s roundup. I enjoyed this guest post on Girl on the Net’s blog.

If you have enjoyed these as much as I have then why not follow a few links and see what else you can find and maybe spend a few hours down the rabbit hole of smut?













Sharing our Shit

Considering that a large majority of adult human beings engage in sexual activity at various times and that many of them, possibly more than is generally realised, enjoy what might be termed alternative sexual activity, the prudery of many large internet companies may seem surprising.  I guess we can’t expect any different from politicians on moral crusades but now Patreon have joined the ranks of the digital Dr. Bowdlers and their target is a community of which I am a small part.

This blog is a pretty low-key operation. I work full time, have a long commute  and consequently don’t have a great deal of time to update it.  A number of my blogging friends devote a lot more time to their blogs, have many many more hits and are able to make part of their living, for example by selling advertising.  They will not, however, become rich from this. Any freelance writing (I have dome this and retain my NUJ membership so I know at first hand) is a precarious existence. So, in order to get a more regular income and so o be able to keep blogging, some of them are sponsored via the website  And in the spirit of quid pro quo they may offer sponsors extras, a kinky video,  say, or a hot story, that are not made available to other visitors. But now, Patreon have changed their terms and conditions and are forbidding users from rewarding sponsors with free pornographic content. This will cut off an important income steam for bloggers and threaten the ability of bloggers to keep blogging.

The call has gone out for us to share our shit and promote each other. I am not going to do this. There are lots of Twitter posts under the hashtag #shareourshit where you can find a load of awesome blogs which I can recommend.  Instead I am going to talk about why sex blogging is important and why it deserves your support.

My friend Violet Fenn recently wrote a piece for The Metro about the joys of pegging. The comments from readers were quite an eye opener. One man seemed to think that there were “gay” and “straight” orgasms, and that pegging might tum you gay (it doesn’t…trust me). Others could not hide their disgust and seemed to find it hard to accept that other people may have sexual tastes that you don’t, but that it is cool. Live and live or as they say on the BDSM scene YKIMKBYKIOK . It is quite apparent to me that ignorance and prejudice are rife. Sex blogs can be, and I use the word with caution, educational.

This links in to my main point. In a  world where there is still stigma and prejudice, sex blogs can be a window into the world of those who are different and nor ashamed, as I am not. We deconstruct the normal,   share experiences, promote in our different ways safe play, safe sex, care about sexual health and the all important issue of consent. If you are confused, lonely, ashamed of your feelings, fetishes, whatever, reading good blogs can be a path to self-knowledge and self acceptance.

This doesn’t only apply to the readers, of course. My writing has had a major impact on my life, and helped me to understand my own sexuality, accept and embrace my gender identity. Oh and it’s enabled me to meet some totally awesome people to drink cider and smoke cigarettes with…….but that is another story.




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.


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.

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…’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…….

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.’

Getting Even

I knew I was in trouble even before I knocked on Mistress’s front door. It was shortly after eleven o’clock that I received a text message from her, written in capitals so that there could be no doubt about her feelings.


This was poor timing on Mistress’ part, if I may be so impertinent as to say such a thing, since at two o’clock I was due to chair a meeting of the Project Board for the large construction project my firm was working on.  However I knew that the command of my Mistress was a sacred law and must be obeyed. So I pretended I had a splitting headache and was feeling sick and left work at twelve to drive to the chambers.

I was dressed in my suit and feeling a little like a debt collector when, my heart thumping, I knocked on the door. It was the stroke of two o’clock when the door swung open. In the usual way Mistress was not to be seen. I walked nervously into the hallway. Before I could look round I had been pushed hard into the wall and as I turned to face Mistress I saw her dressed in a leather catsuit with stilettos , her hair scraped severely back and tied into a ponytail. She looked magnificent and furious.

She came up close and spat in my face saying

‘You worthless piece of shit! You piece of filth!’

I made to wipe away the spittle from my face but she grabbed my wrist and forced my arm back down by my side.

‘Don’t even think of wiping your face!’

With her face contorted by rage she spat at me again and  slapped me hard across the check. I had never seen her like this before and I was afraid.

‘Take your clothes off’ she ordered ‘and place them in a neat pile on that chair. Then kneel facing the wall with your hands on your head.’

Mistress walked into the lounge leaving me on my own. I hurried to comply with her order , anxious that she should not become even angrier. Naked, and feeling very vulnerable, I knelt and waited for Mistress to return.

She came back, shutting the lounge door firmly and decisively. She said nothing but walked backward and forward on the parquet floor, deliberately letting her heels click so as to increase the tension and my anxiety. I was very anxious, my bottom exposed, my penis hanging limply down, seeming to invite torture. I was going to suffer. Mistress surely had some implement or other in her hand to inflict pain. Just as the tension was becoming unbearable Mistress commanded me:

‘Turn round on your knees to face me. Do not look at me, keep your head bowed.’

I longed to raise my head and look Mistress in the face, she was a beautiful woman but I knew what punishment awaited me if I did. I focused instead on her Louboutin shoes and the space of floor between us where I was surely about to grovel.

‘Place both hands on the floor, palms down’ she commanded and I did as I was told.  Before I could react she came forward to stand on the hands before rocking forward onto the balls of her feet and rocking back so that the spiked heels dug into my hands with the full weight of Mistress’ body bearing down on them. I cried out in pain but Mistress laughed.

‘You’re a wimp. What are you?’

‘A wimp Mistress’ I whispered.

‘A  big girl’s blouse.’

‘I’m a big girl’s blouse Mistress’ I responded without waiting for the prompt.

Mistress Doom stepped off my hands and stood with the toes of the shoes just touching my outstretched fingers as I knelt before her.

‘Lean forward you worm and worship my shoes and as you do, look at them very carefully.’

I leant forward and even before I began to lick the right shoe, which Mistress had proffered,  I could see a scratch and a scuff mark on the leather.

‘What do you see?’ asked Mistress.

‘I see a scratch and scuff marks Mistress’ I said.

‘Yes you certainly do,’ continued Mistress, ‘and where do you think they came from?’

‘I don’t know Mistress’ I began to reply but Mistress placed the toe of one shoe under my chin and lifted my head up so that I looked her in the face.’

‘Yes you do. They come from your miserable attempts to clean them in your last session.’

She took my suit from the chair and threw it on the floor. She walked all over it digging in the heels and twisting them to make holes in the jacket.

‘Please Mistress, no!’

‘Shut up. You ruined my things. I’m ruining yours. That seems fair enough to me’

She walked across the hallway dragging my jacket underneath the heels. She dug the stilettos into the material and had soon separated the jacket into two halves. She did not let up and had soon torn my expensive jacket into four pieces.

She threw my shirt onto the floor and had soon shredded that too.

She picked up a piece of what had been my jacket and said

‘Wank all over that.’

I held it in my right hand and began to work the tip of my cock with my thumb.

‘Faster’ she shouted and pushed her shoe into my face. I could feel the small pieces of grit on the red soles and licked as she commanded me.

She thrust the heel into my mouth and commanded

‘Suck the heel like you would a cock.’

My fingers were sweaty, the precome that was dribbling out made my cock slippery and my thumb slid inside the foreskin making my wanking uncomfortable, I dried my thumb on my face and tried again.

‘I said wank. Do it properly. I’ve got another slave coming at three so you’d better hurry up. Wank I said!’

It was fear that made me knead the tip of my cock more and more vigorously. I wanted to take my punishment and go. This time I came quickly and held the cloth over my cock as the creamy come spurted out. I pulled the foreskin back and moved my hand back and forth, squeezing the come out as I did so. Then I let my hand drop. I was exhausted.

I held the cloth fragment up to Mistress and bowed my head.

‘Rub it round your face.’

I imagined washing myself with a flannel, and rubbed the come over my cheeks, my forehead around my chin and neck. I felt it become sticky, smelt its powerful aroma. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror where I was usually brought to see myself as a maid. Now I was a naked, broken man, sweaty, dirty and stinking of come.

‘Now get out of my sight.’

I made for the door, not daring to look back.

‘Your underpants.’

I looked at Mistress. She held them up, looked at them and commented with a smile

‘Skidmarks. A big boy like you can’t even wipe his bottom properly.’

I went red and pulled on the soiled underwear. She handed me my wallet and keys.

‘I won’t keep your car keys. What would I do with a cheap and nasty car like yours?’

It wasn’t a cold day, I was glad of that, even more glad that I had my  car close by. I made its safety without being seen and sat there in a daze trying to reconstruct this most unexpected afternoon. I put my hand down my underpants and masturbated to Mistress. As the come flowed out over my hand I smiled. I was so happy to be her slave and knew that the list of things I would not endure for her was getting shorter each time.

Odi Et Amo – Part One

After tea I sat at my desk and gloomily contemplated my Latin homework, an essay on the love poems of Catullus. Catullus from Verona, who wrote love poems to a girl called Lesbia and also to an unnamed man. He was bisexual, as we all knew even though we imagined Miss Graves our Latin Mistress would never use such a word. I sat with a blank page in front of me. I wrote the date in the margin wrote the title and underlined it and sat and waited. No inspiration came. Then I opened my book of Catullus’ verse and began to read again. And the words carried me off to ancient Verona.

The streets were narrow, it was noisy and dusty and the stench was dreadful. I must have looked a bit odd in my pleated skirt , blazer and straw boater. They say some men fantasise about schoolgirls in uniform but I can’t see it. At sixteen I just felt sexless in my uniform. And people going by in  togas were indeed staring at me.

I stopped someone.

‘Ubi est domus Catulli?’ I asked nervously hardly daring to hope that the man would understand.

He replied quickly and pointed. I carried on and came to a large villa with a wooden door on which I knocked. A beautiful young woman opened, beckoned me inside.

‘Ego Lesbia sum’ she said.

‘Catherine’ I said taking off my boater and looking around. Lesbia helped me off with my blazer showed me into a room off the courtyard where she invited me to recline on a couch. A slave girl came to wash my feet.

‘I’ve come to see Catullus. I need help with his poems.’

Lesbia smiled and said

‘He’ll be back in a couple of hours. Let’s have a glass of wine and talk. I think you’re very attractive.’

She called the slave girl who poured a thick sweet wine into bronze goblets. Lesbia motioned to me to recline on a couch and came over to join me.

‘You don’t need words to understand us’ she said ‘appreciate his poems. Just relax and enjoy me,  and then you can enjoy him. Perhaps he’ll write you a poem.’’

She slipped off her gown and stood before me naked, freshly bathed, freshly perfumed. She came to lie beside me unbuttoned my blouse and unhooked my bra. I felt a bit embarrassed as she began to kiss my breasts, suck the nipples which soon got hard. I was sixteen and a virgin and was suddenly in a strange and wonderful place. I desired this woman and when she slipped down the pleated skirt, nuzzled her face in my now luxuriant bush I did not resist. She took my finger and guiding my hand began to introduce me to the delights of my body.

‘This is your clit. This is the heaven you carry with you. You play with it, massage it gently as I work with my tongue lower down and quench my thirst on your juices.’

She licked and worked her tongue around my sex I played with my clit and could feel myself getting wet.

‘I love you Lesbia, I love you, I love you’  I shouted as I came and Lesbia grabbed my head roughly and forced me down over her pussy. She opened her legs, arched her back and I moved down to explore the beauty of a woman for the first time.

Her juices were sour to the taste at first but soon turned sweet as I got used to the rough stubble of her shaven pussy and to the juices that kept coming, like a well of desire that could never be exhausted. As I licked and worked my tongue up and down she began to moan and placed a finger inside her. She played with herself slowly at first but then faster, faster as she exhorted me to move in step with her with my tongue.

She came and pulled me onto her and we kissed. Even at sixteen I knew what to do and pushed my tongue in deep felt it intertwine wit hers, kept pushing, pushing, even as she gasped for air.

She pushed me away took a deep breath and said.

‘Now we’ve both come let’ just lie and feel each other, skin against skin. The love of woman and woman is the most beautiful thing there is.’

‘And Catullus?’ I asked.

‘Romans have no hang ups. Everyone I now is openly bisexual. He has men I have women and the most beautiful sex is with women.’

We reached for our goblets and drank.

‘You have tasted a woman. Catullus will teach you more than poetry when he comes but believe me you will never again be able to live without a woman.’

She climbed on top of me and began to kiss me slowly and deeply.  And I suddenly remembered what Miss Graves had said.

‘Girls, great literature is sensual, it is erotic, it will grip you and never let go. It will change your life.’

I felt myself go limp with submission as Lesbia began again to adore my breasts. I felt her soft fragrant skin against my clit, felt the juices of desire well up again. Miss Graves was surely right.


The Bonds of Submission



When I returned home from the funeral I sat and wept.  Just a month earlier I had knelt before Mistress Helga and worshipped. She was already gaunt and barely had the strength to wield the whip. Her cancer had returned and she knew her time was short. I had been to see her the day before she died, had held her hand, kissed it tenderly as I knelt at the bedside. I said quietly,

‘I worship and adore you Mistress.’

‘You need further discipline but that must wait for the next life’ .

She smiled weakly and squeezed my hand.

I left hurriedly fighting back the tears.

Then I heard the news I had been dreading.

Mistress Helga went out in style, a pagan funeral and woodland burial. Her coffin was shiny black and she was dressed for burial in leather with her favourite whip.  She was made up and her finger- and toenails were painted jet black by another devoted slave. We queued up to prostrate ourselves before the coffin and say our last humble farewells.

Mistress had given me a pair of her boots as a parting gift. I took them out of the cupboard, wiped them with a cloth to remove the specks of dust.  I had too a pair of her panties in blood red silk, unwashed since she had worn them. I undressed and rubbed them round my face before putting them on and feeling the soft silk against my clit.

I placed the boots in the middle of the floor and left the room. I knocked, walked in head bowed and curtseyed to the boots. I knelt and approached on my knees feeling the hard wood of the parquet floor dig in. This pain was my gift to her who could no longer inflict pain on me.

I began to kiss the boots, to lick the soles, taking the heels in my mouth, imaging sucking and enormous cock, imagining myself as the whore Mistress said I should be. I writhed on the floor and began to play with myself using the left hand as I held the boot in the right, sucking the heel, then licking my way up the shaft wetting the boots just as I was becoming wet. I pressed the stilettos heels into my breast until the pain was too much. I was now highly aroused, playing with myself more and more vigorously as I arched my back and parted my legs as if to be fucked by the spirit of Mistress Helga.

After I came I lay on the sofa and slept. I dreamt of my late Mistress, dreamt of the occasion when I  confessed to  picking up a stranger and being fucked in the lift of a car park, how she ordered me never to come without permission and how she took the cat and flayed me till I begged for mercy before…………………

I woke up in the small hours but didn’t really want to. The boots were on the floor, I still had the red panties on, they were soaking wet and my animal smells were mixed with hers for ever. As I sat up I felt a burning sensation and winced. In the mirror I saw the angry red lines on my bottom. I had been given a flogging. I was in agony. I saw too that the word SLUT had been written in lipstick across my forehead.

I knew I had to visit the wood. In her boots and panties the only things I had on underneath a grey trench coat I sat and talked to her, making my confession. It rained, the wind howled and branches cracked and fell from the trees. I stayed on through the storm. I had to. Her soul was inside me, I would always be hers. The bonds of submission were too strong to be broken, even  by death.