So This is Christmas

And what have you done? Well, not much actually. 2020 has been a write off in so many respects. No kink and not much sex either which may be a good thing because I have been a very well behaved girl for Santa.Instead I have written a lot and I am sure that on the 25th I will be writing again because writing has replaced life. Which has not been entirely a bad thing. It has enabled me to spend more time reflecting on who I am, how I came to be this person, and make peace with most of my past. I am in many ways a happier person than I was a year ago. Above all, I have a much clearer idea of who my true friends are. There are a couple of people who were on the periphery of my life who I know will become close friends when we can actually see each other in real life more often. This is actually nothing to do with sex and one of the frustrations (no pun intended)of 2020 has been the online conversations that may, in a pre-Covid age, have led to the bedroom, but which have fizzled out because there was no prospect of actually meeting up beyond the Zoom screen. But, with new profiles on sites, and a better marketing strategy, I know that 2021 brings a measure of promise. I know my sexual self so much better now, and have the confidence to seek out what I want, and to say no to what I don’t.    

So, this Christmas, I am in a better place than many people so I guess we are really not all in it together. I will be spending it mostly on my own but that is not a problem. I have a rich inner life and I have friends I will reconnect with in 2021 as soon as we are allowed out to play again. But I will think of those who are unable to be with friends and family when they want to be, the LGBT people forced into the miserable straitjacket of hiding their true selves from their families,and all those screaming to get out after the turkey stuffed house arrest as Uncle Derek starts to bang on about what a good thing Brexit is and how he has nothing against black people but……   I guess quite a few of us have relatives like that and biting your tongue all day can be a strain. And if you get the question

“This blog of yours what’s it all about?”

Well let’s not go there, at least not before the fourth glass of port. So actually, a solo Christmas can be the least bad option. I will do some traditional things, I will have a bird (a guinea fowl actually) and a pudding, I will have wine, and, yes, I will have port. You know, I am actually quite looking forward to it.

To all of you reading this, I wish  you as happy a Christmas as you can have and a 2021 filled with all the consensual sex and kink you want. And if that is none, that is cool too. Above all, let’s be kind to each other.

A post for Quote Quest . Click on the badge below for other thoughts on Christmas    




“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.



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? 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.”


“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.”


“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.


A story for Masturbation Monday. Click on the badge to see what other awesome naughtiness has  been posted.

Masturbation Monday


If I Ordered You to Fuck Me

If I ordered you to fuck me

would you? Would your tongue be

as eager to my clit as to my boot?

Would the fingers of a freshly tawsed

hand  mine the pleasures of my cunt?


You say that to fuck is to top , that you can’t,

but know that I will be on top, riding you,

my nails spurs on your nipples,  my eyes

mapping the landscape of your flesh,

surveying all my future pleasures.


If I ordered you to fuck me

would you? Would you?


Notes on Being a Slag

Debbie Archer was my first big crush. I was 11 and she was 14. I wasn’t her only admirer. There was something about her, poise. maturity, the impression (looking back nearly 50 years on) that when most of her contemporaries were still girls, she was well on the way to becoming a woman. And I didn’t just admire her from a distance. She played cello in the school orchestra and I played descant recorder which meant I sat directly behind her and we talked a lot, sometimes I got to sit next to her on the coach when we travelled to play concerts. I ran errands for her, passed on messages, was a sort of confidant. Even at the age of 11 I knew that she was using me but I didn’t care. Serving her was its own reward.

Then there were the boys in Debbie’s year. She used and manipulated them too.  Some of them didn’t like it. Debbie acquired a reputation. It was said, quietly at first, then louder and more openly, that she was a slag.  A section of the girls turned on her. It is said that  slut-shaming is a patriarchal device to control women. Yet women play their full part in policing and condemning other women. School was no different. Yet I remained loyal and took a fierce pride in my devotion to a girl who was despised by so many.

I think I last saw Debbie in 1974. I quickly forgot about her. As you get older memories come back for no apparent reason and it was a few months ago  that I took out my recorders for the first time in age and began to play them. And there she was before me, in her school blazer and green pleated skirt. And I began to reflect again on the ugliness of slut shaming.

I had actually been giving it a bit of thought. before then. After all as a woman who likes sex, and is always open to casual encounters, how could I not? I decided to claim the word slag as a badge of pride and had this tattoo done.


The tag is humorous and my lovely artist Kerry totally loved designing it and putting it on my skin bit it is also deadly serious.  I like sex, I like casual sex, I sleep around (if I get the chance lol) and I am proud to call myself a slag. And I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks. I don’t.

This tattoo is also about solidarity. Solidarity with women who are shamed and stigmatised, and worse, for liking sex, solidarity with women I have known. That includes you Debbie. When others turned on you I remained loyal.  This is for you.

A post for Wicked Wednesday. Follow this linkfor more wickedness


Wicked Wednesday


Last Piece In The Jigsaw

This is the 400th Wicked Wednesday and Marie has asked me to take part via a tweet so it would be wrong not to. So I have a few reflections on the last 8 years of my life and how the jigsaw fell into place, how the pieces of sex, kink and vintage fashion came together in unexpected ways.

Sexual intercourse was discovered in 1963 according to Philip Larkin, not too late for me as I was one year old at the time. However, it took until 2012 for sex to become a defining interest. I don’t know why. I just had an urge one day to write a smutty story. By the end of the year I had started this blog and begin to engage with like-minded people online. In March 2013 I spent a weekend at the computer reading live tweets from Eroticon and wondering why I wasn’t there. I put that right the following year. I began to experiment with my own sexuality and get a feeling for how restricting my previous cisheteronormative assumptions had been. There were world to be discovered and I am enjoying the journey of discovery, knowing that I have barely scratched the surface.

Kink wise I soon began to move on from my initial assumption that I must be a submissive.  It was one Saturday afternoon in April 2014 that I attended a spanking party at a club. After giving me an enjoyable flogging, the house domme invited me to join her in dealing with her next spankee. And I loved it, every bit of it, holding the implements in my hand,  teasing my victim, making the most satisfying thud as the paddle landed. MY kink life would never be the same again. This tied in perfectly with my changing gender identity. From femdom I embarked on a journey that led back to femdom. This is my home on the kink scene.

You won’t have met Claire yet but you will soon. She is my favourite character in my writing, a sassy girl of 21 who lives the vintage life 24/7 and likes sex. In my story she embarks on a man hunt and has lots of sex on the way, some good, some disastrous. But always in a 50s outfit, and often on the vinyl (very handy!) seats of her 1959 Ford Zodiac. When I began the story I knew very little about vintage fashion so I started reading Vintage Life magazine, joining  Facebook groups and, before long, I had a couple of Vivien of Holloway dresses and had attended my first meetups, meeting wonderful ladies who are now amongst my best friends. And this is not an add on to my sexual side. It is part of me. the whole me. After I first attended a fet event in a vintage dress I received a lovely message on Fetlife from a friend who said that, for her, that dress was the final piece in the jigsaw.

Actually not quite. That came when I headed to Bristol  for my first Eroticon and met so may amazing writers and bloggers in the flesh and realised that I had found a new family.  Which is why I am here now, still blogging away, and looking forward to my seventh  Eroticon. And to think I didn’t do any of this until I turned 50.

Dear reader, however old you are, it is never too late to put your own jigsaw into place. I wish you luck.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked


A week ago, a grey plastic package arrived in the post. I ripped it open to find my first subscriber copy of Diva magazine. I suppose it is a sad reflection of our times that it is necessary for the magazine to be sent out in such packaging, in a way that my copies of Private Eye are not. But shame and stigma are still the lived experience of many LGBT people. And this is something I can relate to. It was seven years ago that I bought my first copy, blushing furiously as I approached the till.  There are still shops where DIVA is tucked away far from the women’s lifestyle magazines where it really belongs

I soon fell in love with the magazine, with its varied and interesting features, its high quality of writing, (OK they are still to accept a pitch from me but I live in hope!)   , but above all for its generosity and inclusiveness. For DIVA is both bi- and trans- positive. This stance, particularly on trans issues, has brought it a lot of criticism, and has alienated some long-term readers, but the editors, Jane Czyzelska and for the last year or so, Carrie Lyell, have stuck to their guns. And then there were the amazing sex issues. I have kept all of these, there were hot photoshoots, one of which inspired a story on this blog, there was flash fiction, there were features from which I learnt so much. For a time, the amazing Anna Sansom was sex editor. Anna is the best friend I have never met. We have been engaging online for over 7 years now, she encouraged in the early days of my blog, and was a virtual ear for my experiences as I belatedly discovered myself sexually and began to explore BDSM.  It was Anna who made me aware of Fetlife. And Anna, if you are reading this, 2020 will be the year we finally meet. If you don’t make it to Eroticon I will be heading down your way. It is high time we had coffee and cake together, or maybe gin?

Anna gets a mention in the current issue because the sex edition is back after an absence of a few years. And it is a brilliant issue, not least because it includes the sexual experiences of those for whom sex is unusually problematic, transgender, genderqueer and intersex people. There was much that I can relate to my own experience. Reading it, I became aware of how much I have grown in the few years and how much Diva has helped me on my journey. I feel genuine excitement when I open a new issue, I feel too a sense of belonging to a community of amazing women.

The only downside is that I tend to read it in one sitting and then feel empty until the next one arrives. If you have never read it, do. You will not regret it, however you identify in terms of gender or sexuality. For as they headlined my letter many years ago,

“Diva is for everyone.”

Special Delivery

The card looked official. It said “A Message from Direct Mail Services. Your special delivery will arrive tomorrow at 12 noon. As this is an official court document it is a legal requirement that you be at home to receive the delivery.” The card has a very imposing looking stamp with a crown and the wording Her Majesty’s Courts and Tribunals Service. I held it in my hands for a few seconds, reflecting, Then I put it down.

I went to the kitchen, made a cup of tea and lit a cigarette. I was puzzled by this message but also a little worried. I mean, what did the courts want with me? I had no debts, I had never been in trouble with the police, and the more I reflected on it, the more worried I became.

The following day I woke early after a restless night and phoned the office to say I had a heavy cold and would not be in. And then the time dragged and dragged. I tried to do things, the washing up, read a book, anything but I just ended up smoking too many cigarettes and scrolling listlessly through my Facebook timeline.  The time dragged but, at the same time, moved remorselessly forward. Just as it must have done for condemned prisoners once upon a time I reflected.

I started when my phone burst into life with its jingly jangly alarm call melody.  It was noon. I was about to find out.

I looked through the front room window as the delivery man opened the gate and walked confidently up to the front door. His uniform was dark blue with yellow trim, not quite like the Direct Mail corporate uniform, and then he had his cap pulled down to obscure his face.  But the way he walked seemed familiar. I smiled to myself. I was feeing better already.  I went to the door but he didn’t knock.

“On your knees by the letter box” said a commanding masculine voice. I complied. The flap of the letter box opened and I was suddenly eyeball to eyeball with the fat purple bell end of a most magnificent cock. It was hard, ribbed with veins, the tip already glistening.

“You know what to do.”

This was as much a command as a statement. And I set greedily to work, long slow movements punctuated by whippings with the tongue, feeling it grow ever harder in my mouth as I quickened the tempo. I pressed face against the door to give him the space to face fuck me. He pushed hard as I sucked on his end and three hard choking thrusts later he came with a moan that someone surely must have heard in the street outside.

I gasped and coughed and the come dripped down my chin and onto my top. Then he knocked the door as I hoped he would, document or no document.  As I opened the door, he pushed his way in, bow with a stocking over his head.  I had never enjoyed his cock before but now that I could smell him I was sure I knew who he was. And he was welcome here, especially if I could enjoy his cock again.

He whipped out a pair of handcuffs and used them with a speed and dexterity that left me unable to resist. He attached me to the stair rail.

“You have been a naughty girl” he said. He took a paper handkerchief and wiped the come from around my mouth. Then he pulled down my skirt and panties, bent me over and fucked me from behind, fucked me hard, fucked me until I could take no more and I felt warm come flowing down my inner thigh.

He freed my hands and handed me a delivery note to sign. In my orgasmic daze

“Sign here please Madame to confirm the delivery was safely received.”

I handed it back. He tore off a copy for me and smiled.

“My number is on there if you have any problems with the delivery.”

“Thank you” I muttered.

“Well I am sure we will meet again. I am glad I could be of service.”

He turned and left without looking round.

I sat for a while, enjoying a cigarette (and cigarettes after sex are always the best ones aren’t they?).  picked up the phone and dialled the number on the delivery note. I was sure there was more to be delivered. And I wanted it before dinner.


This was a story for Wicked Wednesday. Click on the image below to see who else is being wicked this week.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked


Ontario – Yours to Discover

This is another Canadian themed post I had intended to write for Smutathon but never quite got round to as fatigue took its toll. But I was determined to write t and here it is:

I never really wanted to go to Toronto. I didn’t, believe me. And I never thought I would end up staying.  I had been with Kat 2 years without ever getting to visit her home city. Then we broke up. It wasn’t easy.  She regarded my affair with a man as a double betrayal.  We parted and Kat returned to Toronto. I resigned myself to never seeing her again.

For over a year, I heard nothing from her. Then I got a text message.

“I need you back in my life. All is forgiven. Almost �”

“Are you coming back to London?” I texted back, with a mixture of apprehension and hope.

“No. You are coming to me. Check your e-mail. I have sent your tickets through.”

So I found myself on the Toronto waterfront  at 2 days’ notice, having phoned in sick at work, no hotel booked, just instruction to wait for a message.

It was late afternoon and the sun was already low in the sky, when the message came.

“Tranmere Drive, Mississauga. Take a cab.”

I stepped out of the taxi into a deserted street with industrial buildings. I felt anxious and vulnerable.   I held my phone in my hand, checking for messages, scrolling anxiously, feeling mounting panic.  Why had she made me come here? What was her game? No one knew I was here. Not work, not family, not my London friends. If I died alone here, who would ever know?

I heard footsteps behind me then felt a gloved hand over my mouth a knee in the back forcing me to the ground.  A hessian sack was pulled over my head. My hands were forced behind me and tied roughly with rope. I trembled.

Then I heard Kat’s voice.

“Just throw the fucking slag in the boot!”

They picked me up, overpowering me as I wriggled and kicked, I felt a strap going round my ankles. Soon I was in the boot of the car, trussed and helpless. The lid slammed shut and I was in darkness.

The car drove off. After a couple of bends the car seemed to be picking up speed and moving straight ahead. I guessed that we mist be on a main highway out of town.

I have no idea how long we had been driving for when I was shaken to the side again as the car veered suddenly off the straight road, braked sharply and began jolting down what was evidently a rough track.  After a short while the car turned sharp left again and came to a sudden halt.

The boot lid was opened and I was lifted out and set on my bound feet. The blindfold was taken off. It was already dark. I had no idea what time it was.  Kat came out and spat in my face.

“You like cock? You’re going to get cock baby!”

She pinched my cheeks and smirked.  One of her accomplices came up wit a license plate on a cord and handed it to her. She showed it to me. Underneath the word Ontario and the motto “Yours to Discover” were the words

“Yours to Fuck,”

She hung it round my neck and laughed again. I trembled with fear.

“Kat, what are you going to do to me?”

“Giving what you like best, honey. Which isn’t what I can give you. Is it?”

She turned me round and pushed me in the direction of the edge of the forest.

“Walk. This is Ontario. Yours to discover”

They all laughed.

I shuffled forward, ankles bound.  I fell over a couple of times, stumbling in the undergrowth. Each time I was pulled roughly to my feet, ordered to carry on. We soon reached a fallen tree where I was ordered to kneel in the wet grass.

I was tied to the tree, blindfolded, my ankles bound, my tights round my ankles. I was alone. At least I think I was. Kat and her friends had gone, I knew that but here it was, bound and helpless, in bra and panties, a quick to the side from having my cunt exposed to the world.

After a while, I heard voices in the clearing.

“Hey, look at this.”

I heard footsteps coming near. Three men were standing over me.

“Well she’s not my type, I guess but, hey, it’s a free fuck.”

“What’s your name?”

I screamed.

“Fuck off!” I yelled, hoping someone might hear. But my screams just seemed to echo in the emptiness. I let out a wail of despair.

“Well Miss Fuck Off we are real pleased to meet you. My friend is Kat’s brother and we have heard so much about you, about how you really like being fucked.”

“That’s right, we have been looking forward to it. And hey cos we’re good guys we have eve brought rubbers.”

Then I heard the third voice. I started. It was an English voice, one I thought I recognised. I was a little relieved that these weren’t random strangers.  If they knew Kat, and were here at Kat’s invitation, then Kat herself and her two accomplices could not be far away. I had not been abandoned. Instead I was being used and degraded in an elaborate game. And, maybe, Kay would have me back  once I had done this penance.

Except it wasn’t penance. As I thought about this |I felt myself getting wet, feel my swelling clit brush against my nylon panties. I was going to get a good hard fucking or three but what I needed more than anything at this moment, was a wank. And this, I would surely be denied.

“Can you untie a hand please?”

“And why would I do that honey? So you can play with yourself? My cock not    good enough for you?”

He climbed onto the log, knelt astride me and tugged down my bra and began sucking my nipples. He was rough, I felt a beard against my skin, felt his teeth.  He was doing this top hurt me.

“Stop it, you’re hurting me!”

“Oh really? Kat said you like it rough.”

He started kneading and slapping my breasts with his hands, again I cried out. He carried on then I felt a finger going into my cunt.

“You’re a dirty bitch. You are so fucking wet.”

“Just fuck me, Please!”

And then he was inside me. He pushed in to the full length of his large cock, grabbed me round d the head, pulling on my hair so that I winced with pain again, then with five brutal thrusts, he ejaculated, and cried out with pleasure as he came.

I hadn’t come, I generally don’t come unless I can massage my clit when I am being fucked. But that was the point wasn’t it?  This was to be sex with men for whom my needs counted for nothing, for whom I was an object with a wet, slippery hole. Kat was trying to teach me a lesson.  She has thought this out well up to a point. What she hadn’t taken into account was that I was enjoying the objectification, I was going to get a month’s worth of wank fantasies out this. Oh God, wank. I so needed to wank.  Oh please!

I pulled against the ropes that bound my wrists. But they were tight, really tight, and rubbed and chafed.  I began to sob with frustration.

The man got up, I could make out the sound of trousers being pulled up, the clink of a belt buckle.

“OK Gary. I’m done. The dirty slut’s all yours now.”

“Hi Gary” I said, attempting a weak smile. Could you just play with my clit a little bit? Please?”

“I really haven’t got time for foreplay and all that shit honey. Kat wants you fucked and fucked hard.”

And he did. Six thrusts, six thrusts of premeditated brutality. And he was out.

“We are using rubbers” said Gary, “that was like part of the deal with Kat, But I am just going to squeeze this baby out over your lovely litl;e tghigh.”

I heard him fumbling with the condom, removing it I guessed carefully so as not to spill anything, then I felt a vigorous rubbing of latex against my inner thighs, then the ooze of cold jizz. He worked his way up to the crotch, spreading his emission over both inner thighs up to the first sproutings of pubic hair.

“Be careful. I can get pregnant from this, you know.”

“And? I quite like the idea of a lesbian having my child. Yeah I love that idea. And he rubbed again and I felt the pubic hair matting as he worked his way up to the vaginal opening.

“yeah, that would be real good.”

He laughed and stood up.

“Mike, the little lady wants you to make her a baby”

They both laughed and I began to scream. I had to hand it to Kat. She had probably thought this one up too.  I felt miserable and helpless as Mike got on top of me and pushed his way in. I barely registered what her was doing to me. He grunted a lot, he was , I guessed, a bit more corpulent than the other two, his breath smelt of vinegar I tried turning my head away from him bit he grabbed it and turned it back. I shut my mouth as I felt him kiss me and try to force his tongue   between my lips.

He would not abandon the effort and I thrashed about, pulling against my restraints, retching at the vinegar breath that I could not escape. He held my head in a lock and I began to choke when I heard someone approach. Mike took his hands off my head and I felt him sit up, still astride me.

“Get off her and leave her alone. You have all had your fun. Now just get back in your car and go home.”

It was Kat, cool, authoritative and utterly dominant. The three men didn’t say a word and walked away. I heard a bang of car doors, an engine starting, and they were gone.

I was spent. She took the blindfold off and smiled.

“Had enough cock, haven’t you?”

I nodded. I felt sore and used, my inner thighs sticky with the come of the men who had had me as I lay there helpless.

“Yes, Kat.”

She stood over me and spat in my face.

“Betray me again and this is going to happen again. And again. And again. Until you learn your fucking lesson.”

“Yes Kat.”

“And what have you learnt?”

“That I will be faithful to you, I will sleep with no one but you, that I am a lesbian. I am yours. I love you Kat, I adore you, take me please take me..”

I burst into tears.

It was after dawn by the time we reached East York. We pulled into a diner where Kay handed me a denim boiler suit. And a pair if pumps.

“Put these on. They’re a bit like prison issue aren’t they but I quite like the idea of that. I mean, the dynamics of our relationship have changed haven’t they and we kinda need to reflect that in our clothes from time to time don’t we?”

I was tired. I was hungry. Cream cheese bagels and coffee were just what I needed.  Back in the warmth of the car I feel asleep but when we reached Kat’s house I was conscious of her lifting me out of the car and tenderly carrying me in to my new home.

After a bath I lay in the freshly made bed waiting for my love.  I played back the previous 24 hours in my head, how I had been degraded and used. My hand reached for my clit. I was horny as f**k. Waiting for her, waiting for her,


As I couldn’t afford them

I cut them out of Vogue,

Put them in my handbag as a charm,

Mine to keep as long as

The paper bears my

Obsessive handling, on the tube,

In the morning coffee shop,

In the places where I take them out,

Weigh them in my hands like gems.


At night, as you lie beside me, sleeping,

I take out the birthday gift,

You will never buy, part my

Booted legs as if for you to fuck me,

Vibrate myself to Amazonian bliss.