Ghosts – Part Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh please Gary, just do it.”

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

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

“Oh fuck, that was good!”

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

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

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

“What do you want?”

“I want you inside me”

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

“Please sir I want to be buggered.”

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

“You know why I am doing this?”

“No”

“No what?”

“No sir”

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

He laughed. I felt myself getting hard.

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

“Wank and we’ll come together.”

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

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

“Sorry sir.”

I was.

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

“Stop sir please stop.”

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

“You came without permission. ”

“No I..”

“You did. Tell me you’re sorry.”

“Sorry sir.”

“On your knees and kiss my arse.”

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

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

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

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

We stood in silence for a few moments then Carl said

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

“Where are you going?”

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

“Can I at least have your address?”

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

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

“I need to move on.”

He avoided eye contact and shuffled his feet.

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

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

He planted a kiss on my lips and said

“Thanks for everything Gary but this is it”

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

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

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

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Anita

“Right on the edge of fear was where trust could grow”

Cherise Sinclair

When I was a boy I wanted to be an amoeba. I liked the idea of being a creature that didn’t have to bother with sex. I adored Debbie Harry,  I masturbated till I was sore, I took my mother’s magazines to bed, I picked a model from the fashion pages and made her my wife, my lover in my fantasies. I imagined the house we would live in, the dinner parties we would host (which were oddly similar to the ones my parents hosted  but they were the only templates of adulthood I had), the bedroom where we would make love. I wanked to her in quiet adoration but when the sticky ejaculation flowed out to matt my pubic hair and dampen my pyjamas I felt a desperate sadness. These were things that would never be more than fantasy for me. Women belonged on posters, in magazines. In real life they were to be feared. Feared because, some time, a woman might ask me for sex. I avoided girls at at school. I took up trainspotting. I don’t even like trains. I found my fellow trainspotters weird. Yeah I know, I’m weird too but compared to these guys? But it was a safe environment, a long long way from sex.

I was 37 and a virgin when I met Anita. She was a few years older than me, divorced with 2 grown up children. I guess she was lonely. She must have been. Why else would she have been interested in me? But we starting meeting up. Just a drink in the local pub, a country walk. I liked her. She had a ready laugh, she could talk about football, she began to look after me. On my birthday I took her for dinner. She bought me a present, shirts and I realised she might be looking for more than friendship. That evening she invited me back to her house for coffee.

Coffee. And it’s not always with granules is it? I made myself comfortable on the sofa. . She poured whiskies and sat next to me. We talked, she sat closer, pressing her knee against my leg, played with my hair.  When she sat on my lap and pressed her lips gently against mine I felt sick. I was alone with her in her house, the bedroom was directly above us, the bedroom, the bedroom. Shit! The bedroom! This is real. This is going to happen. I felt my head go light as she took my hand and led me upstairs.

I failed. I cried. I apologised to her, told her I felt a failure. She cradled my head against her chest. kissed me gently on the top of the head, assuring me it was fine, she wasn’t angry,  it would be better next time. I unburdened myself there and then and 20 years of pain flowed out onto the soft sheets, like waters from a broken dam. She hugged me close, reassured me.

Next time, she kissed me gently, moving her lips from my mouth, down my body to my cock,  she took my cock into her mouth and sucked and licked and flicked the end with her tongue until I was hard. I knew I could keep this erection.  I knew I could. I wanted this. My fear was gone as she lay back, took me in her had and guided me into her wet, warm cunt. It didn’t last long. I felt the foreskin rolling back, felt wonderful sensations I had never known before. I pushed in and out  as she told me what to do. I came, felt the pulse of the ejaculation, saw a brilliant array of lights and colours as I sank down onto  her and submitted to its force.

I was spent. I was high on the joy of the moment. Anita sad she hadn’t come but that she was happy for me. She would come next time. She had enjoyed it anyway and next time would be even better. I cried as I thanked her. I knew that she had dome something special for me, something loving. She had taken my fear and turned it into trust.  And as for amoebas well………imagine one splitting into two and the second  is so much better than the first. It wants to fuck. It needs to.

A post for Week 3 of Quote Quest. See what awesome content others have created in response to the quote by clicking on the badge.

QuoteQuest

 

Lessons in Love

“That” said Fiona Howe, “is the most misogynistic thing I have heard in a long long time. Do you actually know how old I am?”

I shuffled my feet in embarrassment and struggled for an answer.

“Well I thought erm maybe…”

“I am 72. Is that a problem for you?”

“Well no”

“Or maybe it is. You were thinking about how much older I am than you and thought that I might possibly be under seventy and that if I was you might ask me for sex. Is that right?”

“Well yes.”

There was no point lying. She had seen through me. She always did. I took a sip of the milky tea she had made me.

“And seventy is a magic number that makes a woman unfuckable but doesn’t make a man too old for sex. Is that what you think? Is that what all men think.?”

“Well yeah I …”

“If a man of 72 has sex with a younger woman that is fine isn’t it?”

“But the other way round you have a problem with?”

“I’m sorry. It was such a stupid thing to day.”

“It was. Offensive and misogynistic.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry? Is that the best you can do? Sorry?”

I felt myself  going red with shame.   I shuffle my feet and looked at the floor.

“Look at me.”

I complied amazed at how quickly I had resumed the role of immature schoolboy in her presence.  She has the same wavy short hair as 46 years ago, now silver grey, the same snub nose, her face, older obviously, was barely lined. She was beautiful, as she always  had been.

“Would you like to fuck me?”

I nodded, feeling an utter fool.

“When was the last time I saw you?” Fiona asked.

“I think it would have been when I was 14, so 1974?”

“The year I left King Aethelraed’s High. The year I got married and what a disaster that was.”

She sighed.

“That final lesson you gave me 400 lines and the last time I saw you was we I came to the staffroom to hand them in.”

“So not a very happy memory of me then?”

“Well, actually, you set me lines quite regularly and I enjoyed them.”

“What did I make you write?”

“Discipline and obedience are the key to learning.”

“Well I always was inventive wasn’t ?” she laughed, “But you enjoyed writing them?That’s not really the idea. They were a punishment.”

“Yes I know but I liked being punished  by you.”

“Why?”

“Well, I suppose I worshipped you really. I was the only boy who did. The girls all loved you didn’t they? Always complimenting you on your hair, and your clothes. And those beige boots you had.  Every adolescent girl wants to wear boots doesn’t she , it’s like a sign that she is not a girl anymore. And I so wanted to compliment you too and openly adore you the way that girls did. But I was a boy. So I was naughty  so that you would punish me with lines and I sat and wrote and worshipped you, in that lovely tartan skirt you had, in those boots. I’m sorry, you must think I am weird.”

“Not at all.”

She touched me gently on the arm.

“You had a crush on me that’s all. These things are quite normal.”

She looked at me tenderly and I felt a tear running down my cheek.

Fiona changed tone and said briskly.

“I think I would like you to fuck me, it’s been a while. Only the once though. I am very happy on my own and I don’t want you to think there could ever be anything between us.”

I stood there silent, looking into my mug. I hadn’t come looking for a relationship, I hadn’t come well I don’t know. I had  found out that my class teacher from the Third Form had moved into a new house just a quarter of a mile way from where I lived and here I was, 60 and retired, turning a social call into a confession of a teenage crush, Fiona Howe could still make me feel hopelessly inadequate, hopelessly naive, just as she could have done 46 years ago.  At 72 she excited me more than she did then. But I lacked the courage to tell her.

“And if I still had the boots?”

“Well Miss…”

“I am Fiona, we are both adults aren’t we?”

“Fiona, could I see them?”

“You can take them away, get them reheeled, give them a good clean and bring them with you next time. If we are going to fuck I might as well wear them for you.”

I felt myself going bright red with embarrassment.

“I didn’t fantasise about you that way back then I mean….”

“It wouldn’t bother me if you did. I am sure you weren’t the only one. And isn’t that what what spotty faced hormonal boys do?”

I smiled.

“I suppose so.”

“I am going to back the boots in a bag, And there will be a envelope containing your task.”

“Task?”

“A task. Something I require you to do. The chance for you to show me how much you want me.”

I said nothing.

“Sit down and finish your tea. I will be back in a minute”

Arriving home I shut the front door behind me. I leaned back against the door, in the gloom of my hallway and breathed heavily. I unbuttoned my trousers and masturbated to her, coming quickly. Come spilled out over my hand and I rushed to the kitchen in a crouched gait to avoid getting stains over my trousers. I cleaned myself up with kitchen towel, thought again of the boots and masturbated again. I grabbed the bag, pulled out a boot and came over it before greedily licking it clean.

I took the other boot out of the bag. I put them on the table and looked at them closely.  They were scuffed, the leather was dry and beginning to crack in places. Were they the actual boots? Or was this part of her game? I didn’t really care and they certainly looked like the boots I remembered, they had, too, a patina of age. Most important of all, she had worn them.I kissed each one gently and placed them back on the table. I opened the envelope and unfolded the paper on which she had written,

“Before your next visit I require 400 lines. These must be in blue ink and must be in your BEST HANDWRITING. You will write ‘I am a misogynistic arsehole who must learn to respect women.'”

I laid paper and four blue pens out on the table in front of the boots, which I kept in my eyeline as I wrote.

“I am a misogynistic arsehole who must learn to respect women.”

400 lines. Only 400? I was a little disappointed. For Fiona Howe I could write for ever.

 

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A Lockdown Visit

For three weeks I have been stuck at home on my own. This means no sex. Well OK there is solo sex but I really lost my mojo for that when lockdown was announced. My go to prison wife fantasy wasn’t working for me. All I could think of was the reality of prison life now, during the crisis, the way in which the virus is cutting a swathe through the helpless population trapped in our stinking overcrowded jails. Fantasies were everywhere crowded out by awful reality and my libido died.

Well I did for a couple of weeks then, our local police began a high profile enforcement of lockdown she began a regular patrol of my street. She was blonde, not pretty exactly with her aquiline nose and sharp chin that gave her a hard appearance although she did break into a smile when talking to the children playing in their front gardens. When she smiled she was almost beautiful.

That was enough for me. Too much beauty in a woman is a turn off. I began to fantasise about her, I moved my desk in the home office to be by the window so that I could watch her on patrol and frig myself as I did so. In my fantasy she leads me from the house in handcuffs, I am humiliated in front of the neighbours as she leads me to the car, roughly pushes my head down as I get in. At the police station I am processed, stripped of my possessions and locked in a stinking windowless cell where I wait for her. By the third time I was ready to take the fantasy further.

At about three o’clock on Good Friday as I sat at my kitchen table working on my blog, enjoying a cup pf tea and a Hot Cross Bun there was a knock on he door.

It was her. I started.

“Miss Eve Ray?”

I nodded.

“I need to come in and speak to you. There has been a report about you breaching lockdown regulations.”

“Who….”

“I can’t disclose that. But the matter is serious.”

I beckoned her in and showed her through to the kitchen. I glimpsed at her name badge. She was PC Deborah Morris.

“Look Deborah I am happy to answer any questions but there has surely been a misunderstanding.”

I felt her gloved hand slap my cheek.

“You will address me as Ma’am. Is that clear?”

I rubbed my cheek.

“Yes Ma’am” I said, more in shock than anything else. I looked at her. She continued,

“Reports are that you shopped at Tesco and at Boots this morning.”

“Yes but I am allowed out to buy essential items aren’t I?”

“I will decide what is essential. Show me  the receipts”

I rummaged for them in my handbag, handed them to her. She studied them carefully.

“Prosecco”

She allowed herself a smile.

“Is Prosecco essential?”

“Well I think so.”

“Shut up!”

I felt a stinging slap across the other cheek. She then studied the Boots receipt.

“Sanitary products? Are you having your period?”

“I don’t see why you need to know that.”

“If you’re not on Miss Ray” she said with ironic emphasis on my name “these purchases are considered non-essential in line with Section 4 Paragraph 3 of the Corona virus Regulations 2020. As such buying them today would constitute a criminal offence. So I am going to ask you again. Are you having your period.”

“That is my business not yours. I am not answering that question.”

“Very well. In that case I am empowered by the regulations to give you a gynaecological examination to find out.”

“You can’t do that!” I protested.

“I can do what I like Miss Ray. The Coronavirus Act 2020 allows me to do what ever is necessary to prevent, investigate, and punish beaches of the lockdown regulations. I do what I want. You do as you are told. Is that clear?” .

She took a packet of latex gloves out of one of her many pockets., opened it and and put the gloves on with a chilling smack of latex against her skin. I felt arousal.

“Take your clothes off.”

I hesitated.

“Strip.” she screamed. I complied, pulling off my  t shirt and leggings, my knickers, and leaving them in a heap at my feet.

She walked round me, inspecting me.

“Four tattoos! I wouldn’t have had you down as the kind of person who has tattoos. And that lower back tattoo. Slag. That’s what you are aren’t you? A fcking sag!”

“Yes Ma’am.”

I was very wet by now. I wanted this. I climbed onto the table and lay legs apart.

I felt her slide in a finger, two fingers, then the whole hand as my cunt dilated. She moved her hand in in and out, gently at first, then more firmly, placing her thumb in my clit as he did so. She was no novice at pleasuring women. Then, having brought me to the edge of orgasm, she kept me there.

“It’s not looking good for you is it Miss Ray? Is it? You cold go down for six months fr non essential purchases. Do you know that?”

I said nothing, desperate to be brought to orgasm.

“I am going to need to go in deeper” she said, unclipping the baton from her belt.

She fucked me with it, brutally, rhythmically. As she picked up the pace I arched mt back to give her the angle to push it in deeper. I came with a scream. She pulled the baton out.

“Look how wet that is you dirty slag. Lick it clean.”

She held it for me to lick my juices off it which  did greedily.

I got down from the table shaking. I needed aftercare. to be wrapped in a blanket and cuddled, just as my lovely dom does, but there would be no aftercare today. I collapsed at her feet, grabbing her uniform trousers, lowering my lips to kiss her boots. She held the baton threateningly.

“If I have to come here again, you are getting this up the arse.”

“Please Ma’am ” I said, struggling to articulate the words, “I have further offences to be taken into consideration. I would like to make a statement………. please.”

 

 

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Masturbation Monday

 

The Key To His Soul

“Control a man’s cock and you have the key to his soul.”

As I left the hotel and set off in search of a restaurant, I kept repeating this over to myself.  The session had not gone quite as I had planed it.  I was more intuitive and spontaneous in those days.  As I sat in the armchair I was using for a throne, one booted leg folded over the other, observing him with my best poker face, the idea came to me like a flash.

I had never sessioned with Steve before.  He was a little nervous but clearly deeply submissive. After a little humiliation play and an over the knee spanking I saw him get hard. His cock was magnificent, it jutted out ramrod straight, and I could have sworn it was pulsing with anticipation. An idea came to my mind. Such an amazing member needed taming.

“Play with yourself for my entertainment” I ordered him.

He complied eagerly, too eagerly,  so I added

“You are not to come until I give you permission.”

He looked worried by this as he had come quickly to the brink of ejaculation.

There he was to remain. He slowed and stopped.

“Did I say stop? Did I?”

“No Mistress.”

“Keep wanking then.”

“But I am about to come Mistress.”

“Is that my problem? I ordered you to wank and not to come. Get on with it!”

“Yes Mistress.”

I saw fear and anguish in his eyes and felt a rush of sadistic elation as I sat, expressionless, enjoying his torment. He was trying so hard, to obey, tensing his body, contorting his limbs into the weirdest shapes as he fought against his own body, fought out of fear of the punishment I might inflict, or oit of his need, as as submissive man, to please me. And I knew then that he would do anything for release.

But I was not yet ready for that. And I made him suffer for a few more minutes before moving on to my kinky dance class.   At the end of the session I permitted him release. He knelt before me ad came in torrents over my boots, before greedily licking them clean. He had learnt his lesson well.  He understood that release is a reward not a right.  And I realized that sadism is not only about canes and clamps.  Get inside a submissive’s  head and the possibilities are endless.

As it turned out I never sessioned with Steve again. He got in touch a few months later to ask for a session. I replied to say that I was happy to see him but reminded him that he was getting a two hour session with me that, if he went to a professional he would probably be paying north of £200 for.  I didn’t want money but as I would be putting my free time into planning and conducting the session, a small gift would be appreciated, specifically a bottle of my favourite malt whisky.  I never heard from him again.  That, I like to think, is his loss. But if I were to see him again I know I hold the key to his soul.

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Masturbation Monday

 

Dear John

Dear John,

I hope you have had a great time on holiday. I have really enjoyed taking care of your flat and now have a week away myself. I look forward to catching up when I get back.

I have vacuumed, washed up the dirty plates you left lying around the place, (please don’t use plates as ashtrays again!). I have watered your plants every day . I even cleaned your bathroom. I was going to change your bedclothes but well ……actually I have a confession to make.

I slept in your bed every night, loving how the sheets smelt of you, and I played with myself, coming as I fantasised about what we could do together in that bed. I put two, sometimes, `three finger into my soaking wet cunt, and smeared my juices on your pillow.  And that porn mag in the bedside cabinet. The blonde in the centrefold, (she is gorgeous isn’t she?) now smells of me. I so got off on rubbing her pussy against mine. Get up close, smell her and you smell me. Wank to her and you are wanking to me..

Enjoy your bed John, and know that on nights alone you are never alone. And you have my key. It’s in the drawer with the mag. Do remember to water my plants, and if you could put the vacuum round that would be much appreciated. And why not sleep at mine? I want my bed to smell of you and I want to masturbate to you in my bed wen I come back, a bed that smells of you. I need you to come in my bed. Grind against the mattress after you come and mix your juices with mine.

And if I come back to a bed that smells of you then I know that I know I can leave my knickers at home when I next come round to see you don’t I?

See you very soon

Your dirty little slut

Alice

A post for Masturbation Monday.

Masturbation Monday

 

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Foxy Foxy

There are nights at The Fox when there are not enough loos. Like the Fridays when there is a crowd in for karaoke and I seem to drink lager without restraint, knowing I have Saturday to sleep it off. But there are simply not enough loos. I decided against joining the queue in the ladies, hung about impatiently by the single cubicle in the gender neutral loo and…well I didn’t want to but needs must.

I stood at the urinal, hitched up my skirt, slid my panties to the side and took my cock in my hand. I looked around, wondering if anyone was watching, not that this should really have been a problem. I finished, shook the drops of the end of my member, and was about to tuck it away, out of sight, when I felt a hand grip my right shoulder firmly. I spun round, my cock still hanging out of my panties.

“Hello” she said and smiled a smile that I thought wasn’t without a hint of malice. She was just a little bit smaller than me notwithstanding that I was still standing on the step of the urinal. She was, I guessed, in her early twenties,  had short blonde hair, wore jeans and a white t shirt.

“Hello” I replied gormlessly, suddenly acutely aware that my cock was dangling in front of me and my skirt was still hitched up.

“I’m Roo” she said, “and I want to make out with you.”

“With me?” I looked down at my cock which was by now quite hard and rising to the horizontal.

“Yes you. “

She stepped forward and began to knead my breasts.  She whispered in my ear

“Is it OK if I call you a shemale I mean I know it’s not quite the… but it makes me horny, the whole idea. That’s why I want to make out with you. What’s your name?”

“Celine” I lied.  I was sure she didn’t believe me, but she said nothing.

At that moment the cubicle door finally opened, a couple hurried past, avoiding eye contact and Roo steered make into it. She locked the door and squeezed past me to the toilet. She closed the lid and sat down.

I took a step towards her. I was still rock hard and my bellend was glistening with precome.

I took my cock in my hand and asked,

“Do you want to blow me? I would enjoy that.”

“Not really darling, I’m a lesbian, remember? No, you’re going to pleasure me.”

She pulled her jeans down, moved her knickers to the side.

“Get on your knees and move in real close.”

Her lady garden was completely shaven except for 2 thin strips down each side of the labia.  I kissed it, I smelt it and, even before she told me what to do, I began to lick, moving upwards until I reach her clit, felt it stiff and engorged, and I licked and flicked my tongue at it, like a snake sniffing the air for her prey. I put a finger inside her, felt the wetness, the warmth, the dilation that was just inviting me to put more fingers in, then the hand which I clenched into a fist.

Excited by the wet, the smell that overwhelmed my senses, I worked my tongue harder and harder until I felt her stiffen, arch her back and come with a scream that she quickly stifled with her left hand.

“Shit” she said , and started to giggle. “we’ll have somebody in here!”

I sat back on my legs, panting. I was happy that I had made Roo come quickly but what about me?

“What about me?” I asked, more in hope than expectation.

“Now you are going to masturbate for me Celine. Stand against the wall so that I can get a good view.”

This bit was easy. I had been on the edge for so long that I craved the release. I tried to slow down, holding my orgasm back until Roo was ready to come with me. She sat astride the toilet bowl, a finger up her vagina, her thumb deftly working her clit. I watched intently, silently repeating words of adoration, thanks too to whichever deity of debauchery had sent her my way.

“Come if you want” she said. “I’m just about there.”

We came together, Roo with a load sigh, me with a groan of overdue relief. She pulled a clean pair of panties from her pocket and held it so that my come would go glug glugging over it.

“My mother keeps banging on about me doing it with a man. She probably thinks it’s a cure. So I am going to show her this as proof that I have, and tell her it was rubbish……with a man that is. With a lovely shemale it was amazing. Thank you.”

She kissed me gently on the lips and pulled up her jeans as I rearranged my skirt. She unlocked the door and pushed me out of the cubicle.

“Come on Celine, let’s go and join the karaoke. I know what I want to sing.”

“And what’s that?” I asked.

“I Want Your Sex.”

We both laughed.

A story for Masturbation Monday

Masturbation Monday

 

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The Hair Cut

A little story for Masturbation Monday

Heels, jeans and a tight fitting t shirt. I looked at myself in the mirror. I felt my hair , pulled it down, twisted it into plaits. Most of it would soon be gone.

I walked into the barbers and sat down, my heels having alerted everyone to the presence of a woman. The shop went silent. Everyone looked at me. I picked up a newspaper, The Sun if you really want to know. I peered out from behind the newspaper, feeling conspicuous and more than a little uncomfortable.

Two men paid and left, then a father hoisted a screaming toddler onto a little seat that rested on the arms of the barbers chair. I watched as a tattooed  bearded young man went to work. I returned to the sports pages of The Sun. My reading was interrupted by a woman’s voice,

“It’s you next isn’t it lovely?

My barber was a woman. She had a red bob and, like the men was dressed in black, t shirt, and leather trousers tucked into knee high boots.

I stood up and walked over to the chair, a little unsure what came next. I sat down in the chair and stuttered out

“A short back and sides?”

“Shall I leave a bit more on the top so that it lies, you know, rather than sticking up?”

“Oh that would be good.”

“Cut square at the back?”.

I nodded. Still, l I thought, it was good to have a woman to guide me, if necessary, through this strange new world I had stepped into.

“I’m Ali by the way” she said and began her work of cutting and shaving. I watched as the long brown hair dropped in folds over the cape and flopped onto landed onto the floor. I felt myself getting wet as I watched. Under cover of the cape I slipped a hand into my jeans and began to massage my clit.

It was warm in the shop, I was enjoying the music, the falling hair was making me wet and I liked Ali, She didn’t say much but that was maybe because I was drifting off into my own little genderqueer world.

Then she said

“Right all done”.

She showed me her handiwork in the mirror she held behind my head.

“How do you like it?”

I nodded approval. I was speechless with excitement.

She unclipped the cape and I quickly withdrew my hand from my jeans. I was wet and frustrated.

I paid and made to leave. As I turned and headed for the door Ali slipped me a note. Once I reached the bus stop I   the note out of my pocket and unfolded it. It said

“You are gorgeous”

A few weeks later I went back. I knew I needed to experience the again the masculine environment, with kits smell of aftershave and testosterone, its grubby newspapers, the packets of rubbers in a rack. Most of all I needed to see Ali.

This time I had a men’s polo shirt on, I had taped my breasts to make them even less prominent.

“I want a head shave.”

Ali stroked my heads as she worked and I felt my head against her breasts as my nipples hardened and chafed against the tape.

“There you go lovely” said Ali holding up the mirror. I looked at my shaven head, ran my hands over the stubble on my head. I was the last customer of the day. Ali has already locked the door.  I looked in the large mirror in front of  and saw Ali, her hand down her leather trousers.

She knew that I had seen her. She blushed but did not move her hand.

“You’re fuckng hot” she said as she massaged her clit with increasing vigour. “But I have never been with ..you know …I am not sure”

I got out of the chair and shook a few loose hairs from my head. I went up to her.

“I can show you a few things. But for now, let’s just enjoy each other this way.”

I knelt down before her in the sweep of what had been my hair, and which Ali would have to sweep up before she left. I motioned to her to kneel too. There, on our knees in the deserted shop, a double dildo length apart, we masturbated to each other.

“First steps” I said. “We don’t touch, we each pleasure ourselves just as we want to be pleasured by each other next time. We offer this as a gift to each other. We focus on each other, we come together.”

“And next time?” asked Ali.

“Who knows?” I answered. “Just enjoy this. This is the real deal too. Let it bring you joy.”

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Sharing Our Shit – Eurovision Special

Those who know me in real life know that I am a total petrol head. I currently drive an Abarth 595 and have raw, unrefined fun in a car that looks oh so cute but, believe me, isn’t. It is the car for the woman I want to be, a bit girly, quite feminine, but a lot scorpion, and even more bitch. I have owned BMWs, Saabs, two Cortina 1600Es and a Mini.

And, as you might expect of a petrol head sex blogger, I have had sex in a few cars, (not the Abarth sadly – it is way too small) and am a firm believer in not having cloth seats in cars, particularly after a spillage on the back seat in a dark country lane in Oxfordshire many years ago

So I always read about car sex with more than a degree of interest and this week I really liked this by Posy Churchgate. And the petrol head in me loved the picture of a Rover P5.

A Twitter conversation about uniforms led to a discussion of religious habits which led, in turn, to my reading this by May More.

I have just finished a reflection on the April 30 Days of Orgasm Fun challenge and enjoyed this by Marie Rebelle.

I am intrigued by polyamory although I don’t identify as poly myself.The Other Livvy discusses here how polyamory looks from the perspective of someone whose primary partner has secondary partners but, herself, neither has nor needs a secondary partner.

And finally this. Not about sex at all really but a piece of car porn. Or maybe this is it all about sex after all?

30 Days in April – What Happened?

Being chronically disorganised sometimes helps. As so often happens I was late making a doctor’s appointment to get my anti-depressants represcribed. So, for the last few days of April I had to go without. I experienced a few weird days. I drank too much at first as if seeking solace I other ways. I had strange and disturbing dreams, slept during the day , drained of energy. Then I got back to running, took myself in hand, reduced my alcohol intake, and suddenly, one day woke up horny, horny as fuck. As the alarm went I reached, not for my phone, but for a vibrator.

I pleasured myself and came with that intensity that has you looking down a psychedelic kaleidoscope, explosions of colour in my head through as the waves of pleasure hit, fierce waves flagellating a rock. I came again in the shower, once more as I smoked a cigarette on the back step and played my favourite prison fantasy in my head.

Later that day I texted an occasional male sexual partner to arrange to see him, the sooner the better but actually it was not really about him or anybody else. This was about me. I had struggled with the 30 day orgasm challenge and yes I know we are all urged not to set the bar too high, not to punish ourselves if we can’t.

I couldn’t and I felt a failure. And now, a few unplanned days off the meds, I couldn’t stop. And I felt so good, with my daily doses of endorphins. The orgasm challenge ended so well for me. I feel good about myself, I have learnt more about my body, my mind, and how they fit together.

And now the question. Do I actually need medication? Do I need that appointment? Or are the keys to mental health that enticing combination of my imagination and the knowledge  acquired over four decades of how my body works?