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 c**t, holds it against my mouth.

“Taste” she orders quietly.

Then she takes a longer, fatter dildo, and goes down on me, pushes her way in and begins to pump forcefully. I arch my back to allow her to penetrate more deeply.

I look furtively around the gym, slip a finger inside my leggings and rub my clit as I pedal harder and faster to a climax.

I come with a scream and sink back onto the bed. The exercise bike bleeps to tell me my workout is finished.  I take a sip of Lucozade, pick up my book and kiss it.

Natalie withdraws and slides the condom off the end of the dildo. She leans over me and kisses me gently on the forehead.

“You’re a fit bird you know that?”

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.

Sexy Summer Book Club

I am pretty undisciplined when it comes to reading. I usually have seven or more books on the go at any one time, read on the loo, on the bus, while stirring porridge, often just a page or two at a time, before I put the book down and move on to something else. I do plenty of reading but seem to take ages to finish individual books.  It is not unusual for a book for a book to lie untouched for several weeks and, when I pick it up to resume reading, I find I have lost the thread.

For this reason, I am great joiner of book clubs. I regularly attend the Birmingham Feminists Book Club and have read some wonderful books by the likes of Sarah Waters, Maya Angelou and Angela Carter. Book clubs make you read to a deadline and think about what you are reading so that you can contribute to the discussion.  In short, it gives you discipline.

Strange as it may seem, I don’t read nearly as much smut as I ought to.  So I thought that the Sexy Summer Book Club might be an opportunity. We began with the sexual reminiscences and reflections of Girl on the Net. Now I have known GoTN for a few years, having originally met her at Eroticon. I got to chat to her quite a bit as we were often to be found outside the building with the smoking crew. And bonding over a cigarette is a great way to bond, at least with people you are probably never going to go to bed with.

But I had never read very much of her writing. Partly this is because I don’t read a lot of blogs and things online. After a day in the office mired in Excel spreadsheets I just don’t like spending much time reading from screens in the evening. Book Club seemed like a good opportunity to make good the omission.

And I totally loved How a Bad Girl Falls in Love. The GoTN who came off the page was  the same GoTN I love smoking and drinking with. Witty and clever, with a sharp eye for the detail or observation that saves five hundred words, forthright in her opinions, a big personality.

Yet there is more here than opinion, humorous asides and fab sex (although there is plenty of all those). She also writes about her struggles with anxiety and low self-esteem and this, too, is something I can relate to.  I sometimes think it goes with the territory for those of us who became aware, possibly at a young age, that we were different in terms of our sexuality.  The journey away from shame and self-loathing towards an acceptance of who you are and the confidence to simply be yourself is a long one. And even when you find soul mates, in the kink scene or the sex blogging community, for example, the black clouds never quite leave you. Maybe life would be untroubled if all my sex was vanilla, if I didn’t know what a spreader bar was or a dildo?

But ultimately we are who we are. And in my darkest moments  I know that they are people lime GoTN  who will get me, will not judge, will give me love. Which I will reciprocate. Because that is one of the great things to come out of the book for me, the realisation that GoTN is not just a companion in nicotine and cider, but, in all her complexity, a soul mate.

I also understand where she is coming from sexually and why she likes the particular pieces of writing of mine that she does. And some of the writing in this book is hot. I read the book in the gym and had to interrupt my workout on one occasion to go to the Ladies and play with myself. And that, dear reader is the acid test, isn’t it?

An Appetite for Pleasure

When I was 11 and staying at a friend’s house, we stumbled upon her father’s porn stash. We spent the afternoon leafing through these well- thumbed copies of Men Only.  At this distance in time I don’t remember a great deal about them except being fascinated by a photospread of a guy eating bananas and cream off his partner’s lady parts. And so a connection between food and sex was established in my mind. A current male lover loves to lick various sweet treats off my feet and this is as good a pedicure as I have had in any salon and delightfully erotic.

I, in my time, have greedily licked yoghurt and honey off cock, I have drawn a Cadbury’s Flake out of a girlfriend with my teeth (and soaked in pussy juice a Flake is, well, something else) and I still shudder to think to think about the mess a lover and I made of a hotel bed with a steak and kidney pie.

The point for me is that food is sensual, sex is sensual. Eating oysters is quite a bit like sucking cock, it’s just that cock is even better when your lover comes in your mouth. And like all the sensual pleasures they are predicated on mortality. I was, therefore,  little surprised a while ago to talk to a sex positive lady (and part time sex worker)   describing the way in which she had lost weight, through one of the many faddish diets.

“I haven’t eaten for 48 hours”  she said with a smile. “And I’m nor even hungry.”

Well, yes, I thought but this is missing the point. Food is not an enemy it is a pleasure to be embraced like a lover. Eat well, eat regularly just not to excess. Deny yourself nothing. Yet so many people do. And they are surely blunting their sensual appetite more generally. Deny yourself dessert  and what are you going to lick off your lover before you fuck? And how can you get properly horny and have the energy for love making without steak or oysters or a glass of wine?

I have lost three and a half stone since the beginning of 2015. I am now dress size 12 to 14 where I was once a 22. Some of this was down to running but mainly it is down to making the decision to eat well and eat regularly. Three proper meals, no snacks. Oh and room for dessert, room for cheese, room for wine.  It was while visiting friends In France that I had this idea. My friends pointed out that there are far fewer overweight people in France than in England yet most French people eat well. I had to agree.

I really can’t imagine Catherine Deneuve going 48 hours without food and not feeling hungry, still less being happy about it. So I’m just off out to buy cheese and maybe a crème brulee. And then I will see where the evening takes me.

Another Girl, Another Planet

This is a short story I wrote specially for the Eroticon reading slam. There was a certain amount of inspiration from a song, as older readers may notice.

‘Space travel’s in my blood’ she said, pulling off her silver boots, ’there’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘Tell me about yourself, how you came to be doing this.’

‘My name is Neptunia. I was born on the Neptune colony four thousand years ago and came to this galaxy through the time shift, after the solar system was abandoned I have travelled a lot, I enjoy it and when..’

‘they allowed sex again?’

‘Yes, I was chosen to apply to be an inter-galactic sex worker and I jumped at  the opportunity. I see a lot of the cosmos, the money is good  and I ways wanted to be a teacher.’

A teacher was what I needed. This was my first permission to visit our galaxy’s pleasure planet. I had read about sex in antique data storage from the days before humans destroyed planet Earth and the solar system had to be abandoned, musty stained things called books. I grew up after the move towards the more efficient asexual reproduction of the species.  For millennia sex was forbidden. Oh we still married, but only for companionship. Ova and sperm were produced by industrial process so there was no need for the human body to be involved. And sex for pleasure was deemed harmful, detrimental above all to the efficiency of the galactic economy. Like all males I had been locked into a chastity device on my thirteenth birthday. It was only ever removed under medical supervision for purposes of washing and so on,  and we knew nothing other than the dull aches and throbbing pain of the erection being crushed by the pitiless kryptonite.

And now sex was allowed as a privilege, but only for those with the means to travel to the pleasure planet and pay one of the few handpicked sex workers like Neptunia.

‘We only have an hour’ she said ‘maybe we should get on with it?’

She removed her gauntlets and pulling down the shimmering suit revealed two small firm breasts followed by a stomach tattooed with a pink meteor shower and then her pussy, her pubic hair shaven into what Earth language called a Brazilian. As the suit fell round her ankles she stepped out of it and walked towards me. I gazed at her. I had never seen a naked woman before. She took my hand and guided it to the hair, the lips and made me feel my way gingerly up and down.

‘You’ve never seen a woman before have you?’

‘No I er…….’

She gently kissed the top of my head.

‘The pleasures of the body couldn’t be denied for ever’ she said, ‘ and I am so glad the Administration realised that. Just relax……feel my hair, feel the roughness of the stubble, then feel your way down..’

She guided my hand to wear I could sense an opening, then put one of her fingers in and pulled it, put it on my tongue.

‘Taste. I’m getting wet, that’s what women do when they are ready for sex.’

She knelt before me, pulled my head towards hers and kissed me, forcing her tongue between my teeth.    I pulled away horrified.

‘But that’s so unhygienic. It’s gross.’

Neptuia laughed.

“You need to forget all they taught you at school. This is not dirty. It’s really wonderful to get close and intimate with another human being like this. Besides I’m clean and if you want to suggest otherwise you know where the door is,’

She wasn’t laughing now.

‘Just get this straight. I am proud to be a sex worker and any ideas you have about dirty disease ridden whores are just so ancient solar system. Just get them out of your head. Besides only I have the cyberkey to your chastity device. So you had better be nice to me.’

She began to laugh again.

She pulled a thin metal rod out of her bag and pointed it at my crotch. The chastity device loosened with a click and she was soon on me, Gently sliding it off, pushing me onto my back as she kissed me again. This time I could feel her strength as she pinned me down and pushed her tongue into my mouth so hard that I struggled to breathe. I made a token effort to throw her off but she was too strong for me. She slid down my body, her tongue leaving a damp trail until she arrived at my penis. She licked the end before whipping it delicately with the end of her tongue. I felt it harden and rise, now unrestrained for the first time in thirty years. She took it into her mouth and began to suck.

I stiffened and made to draw back.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s just that I’ve never done this before i…..”

The move into her mouth had drawn the foreskin back and the unsheathed bellend, all purple and shiny with her saliva felt vulnerable and exposed. I shuddered.

“Trust me. I won’t hurt you.”

I lay back on the bed took a deep breath and tried to relax. She started again.  This time I shut my eyes and tried to yield to her. She began to move in and out in slow rhythmic movements, and I felt myself beginning to enjoy the warmth and softness of her mouth. Another tongue whipping, another couple of swift movements in and out and I had come, feeling more pain than pleasure as one huge ejaculation quickly followed another.

Neptunia swallowed but kept a little in her mouth as she kissed me and passed some of the creamy fluid into my mouth.

“That’s the taste of a man. That’s your taste.”

She wiped her lips and smiled.

‘That’s it” she said. “Your time is nearly up.”

“And sex?” I asked not hiding my disappointment.

“Not today. I need to file my report and the Pleasure Ministry will decide if you can have a second appointment with full service.”

“And if they don’t?”

“If they don’t they don’t” said Neptunia matter of factly. “It’s down to the Ministry to decide if you need sex, or if the productive capacity of the state will be enhanced. It’s not my decision. And to be honest I don’t care either way. I’m a sex worker. I service my clients and show them the door. I don’t get emotionally involved.”

Perhaps she could see the disappointment on my face because she quickly added

“I like you and I’ve enjoyed spending time with you. So I will write a positive opinion. And maybe you will come again.”

She reached behind her and picked up the chastity cage and cyberkey.

“Come here. I have to put this back on.”

“No” I said, surprised at the firmness in my voice. “I’m not going back into that.”

I backed away but she stood up and walked towards me with a determined look.

‘That chastity device IS going back on. It’s inter-galactic law and I am here to enforce it.’

She pushed me back against the wall and hissed

‘Are you going to do as you’re told or do I have to hurt you?’

The last words came out with such venom that her spit flecked my glasses.’

‘Just remember the report I have to file. Piss me off and you’ll never come here again. You’ll live the rest of your life like a fucking monk. Is that what you want?

‘No’

My resistance was broken. She clipped it back into place, locked it with the cyberkey. I looked at her, as he pulled on her boots. I felt desire for her again, felt the blood pumping into my penis, which rose and swelled until cruelly restricted by the cage. I bent low with the agony and sank to my knees crying. It was not just for the desire of Neptunia but for what I had understood. Chastity was slavery, I had always wondered about the things I had read from earth days when chastity was a form of play in something called BDSM. I realised that when we are not free to use our bodies as we want, when we cannot express ourselves sexually then we are slaves. My head was teeming with subversive thoughts. Did The Administration realise how dangerous this could all be?  I knew too that I could say nothing of this to Neptunia who was after all a spy for the police, part of the control apparatus. What an irony there was there!

In any case I had to come back, to push my penis for the first time through those mysterious soft folds of flesh, into that secret place of the ultimate warmth and softness.

‘Come on’ said Neptunia. ‘it’s time for you to go.’

She led me out to the docking pod and I was soon on my way, her planet a distant speck and her body a sweet memory. It is a long and tiring flight to the Pleasure Planet and back but I know I will return. Long journeys wear me out but I know I can’t live without it.’

 

OF GIRLS AND CARS OR ….THIS GIRL AND THIS CAR

I am still looking for a recording of the Arena programme “The Life and Times of the Ford Cortina” broadcast in 1982, the year that Cortina production stopped, this iconic car  being replaced by the initially unpopular Ford Sierra, referred to by many as an upside down blancmange. The programme was an exploration of the car as cultural icon and featured Tom Robinson singing this hymn to the Cortina.

This was the car that the young me always dreamed of owning, ever since I set eyes on an aubergine one with a vinyl roof  on the car park at Whistling Sands in North Wales in 1969. My siblings were keen to get down to that lovely sandy beach in its sheltered cove, to build sandcastles, explore the fascinating aquatic mini-worlds of the rock pools left behind by the retreating sea when the tide turned. But I only had eyes for the car, the dark majesty of its paintwork, the shine of the rostyle wheels, the radio aerial leaning rakishly back from above the windscreen, the racing car style pod wing mirrors. Inside there was a wooden dashboard with a rev counter with its shock of red (a bit like the hair I have at the moment!), the steering wheel with holed steel spokes. This was an executive sports saloon built for those for whom such a car would have been beyond their budget previously. I walked around it, admiring its perfect form, its understated beauty and fell in love.

There has always been a prejudice in certain quarters about girls and cars.  Not just the jokes about women drivers (boys, we pay lower premiums than you, ever wondered why?), but also the mansplaining wisdom that the female brain cannot accommodate engineering concepts in its tiny form. Why these prejudices persist is unclear. There have, for example, been a number of successful female rally drivers, going back to the days of Pat Moss, there are excellent female motoring journalists, indeed Top Gear pre the Clarkson testosterone revolution always had at least one female presenter. In the last few weeks there has been Girls and cars on Radio 4, were female celebs come on to go through their automotive autobiography, talking knowledgeably about cars they have owned. Women can be petrolheads too and we don’t need gimmicks like “Girly” versions of cars (Mini Design anyone?)

So here is an extract from mine:

After an initial infatuation with a Mini I finally bought a 1600E, amber gold with a black interior, a but rusty in places but it looked the business, much more than the XR3 and other sporting Fords of the time. It was probably even by 1986 an old fashioned car, with its steering box, dynamo and cart spring rear suspension but the bonnet hid the delights of the engine with its twin choke Weber carburettor nestling under an air box that looked like an upturned frying pan, and  the four branch exhaust manifold on the opposite side of the head, like a clutch of serpents. There was even a sticker on the head sayinh 1600GT in red letters. It all looked purposeful. And it was. The crossflow version of the Kent engine was a fine unit, with a lovely whine on the overrun that gave plenty of torque low down. With well chosen gear ratios you could pull from 10 mph in 3^rd gear and 15 in 4^th. A car for the open road really, and not a car for motorway cruising, (you couldn’t hear the radio once the speed got past 55 mph!) but, then again, there weren’t that many motorways in 1968.

I had the car two years before rust spread and became terminal, but two good years they were. And even though I am a 50s girl at heart and have a pic of a Mk 2 Zodiac on my Facebook profile, it is for the Mk 2 Cortina that my heart beats,

There aren’t that many 1600Es left and hardly any in daily use. I did see one last week and it turned heads, mine included. I felt a pang, about like seeing a former lover, remembering the nights, the beds where you explored each other, and wondering if he tastes the same today but reflecting wistfully that you will never find out.

This is meant to be a sex blog so I will mention the car’s biggest plus, vinyl seats, and you surely don’t need to ask why.

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.

 

 

 

Looking Forward to Eroticon

I have booked my place, booked my hotel and even told people I am going to an erotic writers convention. Cue raised eyebrows in several quarters. But why shouldn’t I tell people?  It’s not something to be ashamed of is it? I am looking forward to it as I have not looked forward to an event for ages. It was just under twelve months ago that I sat at my computer writing and following the #eroticon2013 hashtag on Twitter. I began to feel that aching sense of loss, of missing out on something I would dearly love to have been at. I resolved that I would not miss out again.

It’s not just about developing as a writer although that is important. I would like to get more of my stories published, not to make money, (erotic writing is never likely to put a Ferrari on my drive!) but because I feel I have something to say. The main attraction of the weekend is actually that I get to spend two days in a sex positive space, with people I have come to see (I have had on-line contact with some of them) as kindred spirits, share with them and learn from them, above all to celebrate sex and human sexuality in all its manifestations (its consensual manifestations that is) as something liberating and empowering. This is a message that our increasingly puritanical and censorious society needs to hear.