Courage Part Two

Hello, Wicked Wednesday friends. 

Thought I would continue where I left off last week. If you haven't read part one of this little story, you can find it here.

Stumbling down the hall behind him, I hope he is blind to everything except his own need. The scent of him is stronger in the bedroom and as he sheds his trainers and socks I concentrate on breaking it down. Deodorant or something equally artificial over warm body. Faint traces of those base notes we all share, sweat and work and sex. Enough to know this is real. Dusty construction smells from his work clothes. He strips in the pool of light from the hallway, spotlit against the darkness of his room. His jeans come down and his body is revealed and everything else retreats to the backdrop.

I want. Want. My hands on hot skin rough with hair. His breath in my mouth. And I take it. Because I can. Because…

I push him back on the bed and stand over him. Silly, cartoon dominance, but I have to be sure. He strokes his cock slowly, looking up at me, blue grey eyes wide with want. Wanting me to want him. I wait. He stills, hand falling to lie against his thigh.

“Back up.” He scuttles back towards the pillows and I kneel between his feet. Lean over him. Let him absorb where we are. Who he is. His pale gaze is watchful. Waiting.

Lips meet. Press. Part reluctantly, skin clinging where we are not. Breathe each other’s air.

We meet each other slowly, equal parts wary and hungry. The way the half light catches the whites of our eyes I can see him watching me but not with any nuance of expression. He can see me watching him but I remain equally hidden. Neither of us reaches for the light and we keep our secrets safe.

I trail my hands lightly over the topography of his body, tracing clean cut lines of collar bone and rib. Stomach sucked tight in response to trailing fingers and a gasp of breath. Ticklish then. Dips of hips and thick muscles of thigh, raking my fingers through his coarse pelt till it thickens at the base of his cock.

Dragging one finger down his length from weeping tip to hairy sac raises another sound, more groan than gasp and his body undulates to curl in on itself and then thrust blindly into the air.

“What sounds will you make as I suck you off?”

“Jac. God. Please.”

I like the way he cries my name.  Love the stretch and slide as I explore his junk, dragging his skin over the hardness beneath, following his length back beneath his balls to the private seams and furrows. The soft hairless patches, the wrinkles, the delicate movement of it all beneath my fingers that makes it seem like a separate living entity from the straining man holding himself against the bed.

Lips close enough to feel his warmth, his scent a mouthwatering flavour, I take soft skin between my teeth and test its substance, test his substance with nips and kisses and grazing bites. Slip his head into my mouth and press my tongue into his weeping eye. He cries wordless pleas and tries to force himself deeper and I can taste his honesty, bitter, salty tears that coat my mouth.

I shed my shirt, toeing off my trainers and unbuckling my belt. I want that rough hair, those sinuous limbs and strong, bony fingers against skin more than I hate bearing my body. Jeans gone, I press myself against his heat and I kiss him again, lips wet from his cock. He bucks against me this time in fear or distaste but settles as I stoke my tongue against his and the flavour disperses. I let the kiss settle, before sitting back, straddling his thigh.

“You don’t like your taste?”

“I don’t… I haven’t… I…”

“But you want me to?”

“Jac. Please.”

I scoot my hand under my shorts and wet my fingers. Paint my lips and kiss him again. No complaints this time. My hand finds his cock, heavy and full against his stomach and I let my fingers capture his slick. Licking their tips, I ask him to open for me. He doesn’t at first, flinching away for a second or two, lips clamped shut before he finally opens his mouth and lets my fingers in, cleans them with his tongue.

A smile curves his lips as we move together for a kiss.

“Some kinky shite alright,” he murmurs against my mouth.

“’bout to get more kinky,” I smile back and slide my hand purposefully over his cock and down between his thighs. “You got lube?”

“God. Yeah. Here…somewhere.” I reach for the drawer, just out of his reach. Pinned beneath me he writhes, but neither of us really want his freedom. Blindly fumbling, I find a familiarly shaped pump bottle and bring it to the bed. A sickly fruity smell follows.

“Not that shite. Not if you don’t mind… I think…” I wonder who needed the fakery to blow him. Who told him he tastes bad? With the drawer pulled open he manages some feat of contortionism and brings back another little bottle. Even in the low light from hallway, it was clear this was a more specialised product.

“Been thinking about this? Just a little?” I tease. Enough to get supplies in.

“Yeah. Well. Bit of a boy scout you remember?” His voice is huskier now. Quieter.

“You good?”

“Mmm.” Not enough of a yes for me to just plough on, but enough to keep pressing forward.

I used to hate my height, my build. When the growth spurt hit at puberty it put me a foot taller than anyone I fancied and they didn’t catch up for years. Some of them never did. Now, with his matching body beneath me everything made sense. These moments, few and far between, when suddenly I fit in my skin, are just something else. Something to cling to.

His hair caught between my fingers, I steer our kisses and wait for him to relax. Hands curl around my waist, rubbing lightly against my sides, the motions slow and gentle and with each pass he settles further into the slide of our lips. Lubing my other hand, thank fuck for pump action bottles, I slide two fingers into the tight crease of his backside, seeking and finding my goal.

“Open up for me.” He murmurs something and tried to reach back into the kiss. I pull back on his hair, pull my hand free of his arse and slap his thigh. “Open up. Bring you knee higher and…” I stop with the instructions and move him where I want him. He doesn’t resist. Watches me with night black eyes and panting breaths.

“You still want this?” Want me?

TMI The Meaning of Life

What makes you, you?

Fighting for things I want for my children has made me more observant about myself. One of my children is very non defined, and I have made a point of making sure they are not constrained by people saying “boys don’t do that”, “hair shouldn’t look like that”, “children shouldn’t need that”. I have realised actually I had let lots of those statements define me in my younger years, so now I am much more positive in my definition. I am lots of roles, but inside all of them I aim to stick to my core values of being kind, honest and trustworthy. The holds as true in bed or in communication about ideas as in a professionals meeting about my children. 

Do you care more about doing the right thing or doing things right?

I have a very strong sense of doing the right thing, even if that isn’t the right thing for me. It gets me into trouble when I fight a point rather than letting it lie, because it is the right thing.  I hope though I am thoughtful and informed when I come to choose my path… but once on it I will stick there with tenacity.

What is sexual freedom? Do you have it?

I’m in a monogamous relationship and have been for 15 years, so my definition of freedom might be very different to someone else’s. I am free to be myself, to share my fantasies and desires and to act on as many of them as are possible within the constraints of my chosen relationship structure… I think that is freedom.

In your romantic relationships, is trust more important than love?

Trust can exist without love, but love without trust? Lust, desire, hope… all part of the romantic love package, but trust is crucial to me for it to be love. Trust does not have to mean that person always puts your needs first in their actions, but it does mean communication stays open even when you need to do or think separate things.

Your life, is it more of a dream or a nightmare?

Neither… quite the soap opera at the moment. Four of us in my household are autistic, we have a supporting cast of young people from around Europe as au pairs, so meet lots of different viewpoints, politics and stages of personal development. The central relationships are strong and stable between multiple generations and branches of my family even though they are often defined by being caring roles, including at the moment trying to support my best friend and her family while she is very ill. Love holds us all together in the myriad ways we share it and so all is good.

What is the last romantic thing you did for someone?

Romantic? I pick his t-shirts out of his jumpers before I wash them. Actually, I am not very romantic at all… it’s not my love language. I'm much more service and touch orientated than anything that could be described as typical romance and even in reception, I am more interested in being the focus of attention rather than being given things or treated to experiences. 

View others TMI blogs here

Courage of your convictions

I love my twitter feed... full of people I've met at Eroticon '17 and '18 and the wider blogging community. A really lovely bunch. If you've wondered about coming, it really is amazing and worthwhile for the atmosphere as well as the speakers and sponsers. 

At both Eroticons, I have really enjoyed the readings. At the first, I was a neophyte blogger, who had opened a blog to do my meet and greet. I was blown away by the confidence and courage of those who read their own work and digested the anthology Identity with gusto.  This year, there were people reading their work who reduced the room to hushed silence and tears, and again the anthology Truth is full of gorgeous longer pieces from bloggers I have enjoyed and people I'd never read before.  

At both there were people who said "I'm not really a writer" or in the case of one young lady, describes her feelings of impostor syndrome. "What am I doing here, reading my fiction? I blog about my life, not write."

I really felt that the first year. The second, having been through a little blogging break, I was worried that I was even more of an impostor...I had failed to keep at it. I was a fairweather blogger. 

It takes nerve to go out in public and say, "Yes. I write." and even more so  "Yes.  I write about sex." Marie talks about the difficulties of exposing this about yourself in her piece I'm not a threat

Given that the whole thing is sponsored by sex toy companies, and Saturday afternoon included a "come and try..." session, it was also scary because, unless you were very closeted, your sexuality was going to be out in the open. For some, not an issue. I'd not told anyone, not even my husband, how I self-identified before March 2017. 

What the whole experience has done for me, writing the blog and meeting people, rather than sitting at home reading  the (sometimes lackluster) stuff I found online is that it has given me courage in my convictions. Yes, I can write. Actually, it doesn't always have to be fiction to be valid. It is ok for me to identify as being on the submissive side of the scale and still be bossy me at home when I have to. It is absolutely fine that my sexuality and my gender are a bit fluid and amorphous. 

Like Jadis said in her piece My armour is made of pretty skirts the relief of wearing this on the outside cannot be under-estimated. Molly, leading us by example, goes out there and did what felt right to her Courage of my Convictions. 

This post was supposed to be a piece of fiction... So I am breaking all of the word limits to put it on the end here. But this is important for me. I have struggled to write fiction this month as the real world has crowded in. But fiction is a form of the truth. Maybe not what happened, but a fragment of thoughts and feelings blown up and magnified till it becomes something quite different. 

This is part one... I can't leave them there and I want to know what happens next. I hope you feel the same way. 

“How did you know?”

I put down my pint, because that starter for ten, well, it could go several ways. “Know what?”

Malley hunched down across the table. “Y’know. All that kinky shite you did with Dave’s cousin.”

Ah. It was going that way. I took another mouthful. Then, meeting his eyes, I took one more, just to give me time to judge his mood. It was more about what was missing. No salacious grin. No tease of humour. Dave’s cousin was what, six, seven years ago. My sister’s eighteenth.

“Nothing better to talk about?” I asked. His gaze shifted around the pub. There was just me and him and a hundred other people. My mum’s table of friends chatting after the quiz. Just a chance meeting on a rare night home.

He shifted uncomfortably and scooted his stool closer under the table. Our knees knocked, but he didn’t move away. “Just wondered,” he said. “Cuz split up with his girl last year because she wouldn’t do that.”

“Well, more fool him then. There’s more to a relationship than sex.” Even kinky sex. Another swallow. This pint was going down easy. He was matching me.

“Is that summat you do though. Y’know. With guys?” Malley blushed then. Fuck, he looked young.I downed the end of my drink and stood. “I’m going to let my mum know I’ll walk home. Be outside in ten.”

The August night was cool but bone dry, first autumn leaves swishing against the pavement as we walked. Hands in pockets, arms bumping. Casual. Like teenagers. Like we didn’t know we were going to fuck.  

“We going to yours?” Or was I going to have to get creative in the woods? I wasn’t taking him back to my mum’s, that much was certain.

“Got a flat, just off Oxford Road.”

The small talk started. Just taking us back to those summers when we knew each other. When he was the mouthy best friend of my little sister’s boyfriend. When I was the awkward hanger on, wondering what to do with my height and my kinky dreams and the boys who didn’t want to kiss me.

He paused at the petrol station, turned so suddenly he banged into me, grabbing my waist to keep me steady. Bringing us chest to chest. Face to face. His breath was sweet and minty with gum over the bitterness of our drinks. In the sodium lit dark I could see his flushed cheeks black against his orange hued skin. His eyes skimming my face and returning again and again to my lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

I kissed him, pretty sure that was what he wanted. He fought me a bit before he seemed to work out he didn’t have to. Before I brought his hands to my shoulders and hooked my thumbs into his belt loops. Let my fingers trail, loose and casual against the seam of his jeans. Hips stuttering into mine, hard and keen. I pinched his backside and pushed him away.

We walked faster then, falling into rhythm with each other. Made our way up the narrow stairs into the converted flat that was small and cluttered. I crowded him into the wall and kissed him hard, catching his wrists and pinning him and tasting the hitch in his breath, the sweetness of his gasp as I ground against him.

“What do you want?” Cursing myself for asking, I met his eyes anyway.

“Cuz said,”

“I know what Cuz said,” I interrupted, even though I didn't, letting a touch of growl into my voice, “I asked what you want.”

His hips ground up against mine again, and I dropped his wrist to manhandle his cock. If he’d been listening to Cuz, this shouldn’t have come as a shock. His hand stayed against the wall, a strangled sound bubbling from his mouth as though the pressure was on his throat.

“Please! I don’t know. I just…”

I let go and stepped back. Risky move, but I’d rather frig off after a long walk back to mum’s than make a fool of myself now. He’d kissed well enough, his hard, lean body against mine wanking fodder for the next little while if this was all I got.

“He said you fucked him. Like a man. But y’know. Not.” His words spilled out in a hot rush. “I want… I mean, I think… I dream about it. And then there you were. I didn’t think you lived here anymore.”

I don’t. I think we covered that in our memory lane session, but scrambling his brain is satisfying on a certain level. I wonder if he’s ever thought about me, or just the act.

“Please.” Just the right amount of need with the right amount of conviction in his plea.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter.

I push his heavy jacket down his arms till it thumps on the floor. Unbutton his shirt. Dark coarse hair that wasn’t there when we were seventeen springs to meet my fingers. Nipples flushed red and tight standing to attention as I stroke through the fur. Flushed like his mouth. I step in closer and take more. Take his breath, the softness of his lips between mine, between my teeth. Fuck into his mouth with my tongue, dancing with his. Take the lead.

Take my time.

Pop the button on his jeans and push my hand into the warm nest of his undies.  Measure him in my hand, his weight, his girth. Burrow past to his balls, pulled high already. His groan as I cup them and pull down gently is powerful magic I don’t understand but live for anyway. Who knows what makes me who I am?

His hands start to move to undress me, but this isn’t how this will go. “Naked. Bedroom. Now.” I order, not even trying to temper myself. He said it. I want to fuck him, open him, feel him stretch around my fingers. I want him beneath me, naked and panting.

The next thought, the one I never let myself have, barrels through me, catching me unawares, hitches my breath and weakens my knees.  I want to fuck him. I want to fuck him with the dick I don’t have.

Food For thought Friday: Inappropriate locations

Where is the most inappropriate place that you have engaged in any kind of sexual activity?

Ahhh… well… there is inappropriate because of location and inappropriate because you were being naughty isn’t there? So, in line with the rest of the prompt, (and yes the clue is in the picture) I am going to give you by location and save naughty for later (I don't seem to have a filter…so one day I will end up telling everyone)

In the sea off Xi Beach in Kefalonia…which I know doesn't sound that inappropriate but to be more precise…

Xi Beach is a beautiful sandy shallow beach on the southernmost tip of a peninsula, gently swelling sea for 270 degrees of view, making it a rather popular.tourist destination and in all the travel guides. The weather was roasting and our little hire car didn't have air con, so we were hot and sticky and desperate to take our clothes off. I don't know know why, but we were surprised at how full the beach was, given it was very late afternoon, and desperate for some alone space. We waded out in the gentle swell of a shallow beach, until we were pretty much further out that anyone except the sporty windsurfers and kayakers, but the water still came to the bottom of our ribcages if that. Our second holiday together, not yet engaged and interestingly, the same week I discovered he didn’t want me topless in public. But he did want me. Too much for the hour or so back to our little apartment on the other side of the island. I wrapped my legs around his waist and lay back in the water. We’d never had sex against the wall because even then I was too much of a handful to be picked up, so in the water sex, with my weight supported by the gentle waves, was perfect.

There was no real way we could realistically hide what we were doing…close enough to a crowded beach (hundreds of people I think… possibly more) for it to basically be both exhibitionism and very frowned upon by the Greek authorities if they’d caught us. I think we just worked on the grounds everyone else was so busy looking at what they were doing they wouldn’t notice us. I remember being so swept away that he didn’t want to wait, that I wasn’t going to say no. At this point in our lives, I hadn’t worked out with the certainty and confidence I have now, that I am submissive to the point I don’t always make good decisions… or rather I don’t necessarily question the decisions of others that I trust even when the non-submissive bit of me squeaks out the “are you sure?” warning. The difference is now we know this as a couple, he interrogates his decision making differently, taking sole responsibility for my safety and dignity in every potentially kinky situation.

We didn't lose clothes, just pushed aside swimsuits for a hurried fuck to the rhythm of the tide and the muted sounds of the distant crowd. 

I am working on the grounds this is slightly more inappropriate to the swimming pool in Portugal the year before, when we had discovered having me floating increased the range of positions we could explore. And no… that wasn’t a private pool. And it was in the daytime… but to be fair, no-one else was actually in the water at the same time as us…

Now I just cringe at the ickyness of potential contamination… but at the time, wild with energy for each other and well before the kids came along, we just went with the flow.

When I think about it… on holiday last year we did borrow the key to the campsite jacuzzi pool once or twice and manage a quickie… but I hasten to say, not “in” the jacuzzi, but we were sharing a caravan with three kids and two au pairs, so the brick built block which housed the jacuzzi and a steam room seemed like the most secure option. Fifteen years on and it was more about privacy than exhibitionism.

Last night we christened our new spa pool. I have written about why we have one last year, but this year we needed a new one and when summer arrived for two days last week we ordered it. Bigger…I can lie down and completely not touch the sides.

I lay on top of him, supported by the water, letting my body rub and float over his. The lightest of touches. And we kissed. Just touching, barely there, breathing each other in kisses that lasted for time we couldn’t quantify. We listened to each other breathe, the soft patter of rain on the canopy overhead and the silence.

I love being in the water with him. Love the freedom from awkward limbs and (now creaking) joints and the limitations of being bigger.

I also love the late night dog walkers walking the pavement feet from where we are hidden behind a tall brick wall and some even taller dogwood. How their conversations change from murmurs to words so clear and sharp you can hear their breathing, then fade back to a murmur and silence. The safety and the exhibitionism all in one.

As I’ve been writing this I have realised that is the common theme. I don’t really want to be seen, but at the same time my inner exhibitionist wants to play. I don’t find my body sexy, so hidden in the water suits me just fine. But the sounds and the knowledge that I’m/we’re having sex…I don’t mind sharing that at all.

Blogs and books... things I've read this week

Over the last couple of weeks I found I have been able to answer a few circulating tweets about book characters from different backgrounds. Trans male protagonist? Yep... few on my bookshelf. Different racial or ethnic backgrounds? Tick... although there are some themes that show up more often than others and very little using the different cultures within Europe as a story theme or characteristic. Disabled characters. Yes. Although if you have to take out "disabled by an heroic act" then the number decreases by at least two thirds. 

Blogs are newer reading material for me and I am still trying to get to grips with access time, predominantly because so many blogs include lovely pictures. My children can't read despite their ages, so the contents of my Kindle doesn't worry me. But open a blog or my twitter feed and get an unexpectedly forthright picture and it is a different story. So blogs are for after bedtime. 

I really love the #SoSS posts and have been flattered beyond belief to feature in some, especially in the last few weeks when the content has not been the short stories I thought would be the mainstay when I started my blog. So rather than just linking to blogs I'm going to try to do a bit more... we'll see how often I can fit this into my writing week!

This week I have been made to think by:

The Cone of Shame is fun with friends  by Floss was my first read this week. One of the things I love about reading blogs is it expands my kink library and thought processes. I am in a monogamous relationship that for all sorts of reasons is most likely going to stay that way, but I am very poly-curious (and if that isn't a term yet... I'm still using it) I think because it is so much trapped in the realm of fantasy, I have no 'bleurgh' thoughts when it comes to imagining my partner with someone else. In fact, like Molly's post You, Me Her I find the idea of my significant other with another woman, or in fact anyone, to be a turn on and am pleased it is something he whispers about in my ear late at night. 

It shouldn't really be a surprise that I have read lots of fiction (of admittedly mixed quality) where the central relationship is poly. It was lovely to meet FF Sexton at Eroticon in 2017 and earlier this month I read the longer version of his piece for the Eroticon Anthology 2017 Identity. His story,  An Invitation: Bisexual Husband Erotica (MMF threesome): Extended version was a lovely evenings entertainment... especially as I could only hear it in his soft accent. 

Floss's blog also made me think about humiliation as a kink. I would have said it wasn't my thing... but then within that one description there are so many variations. I have certainly enjoyed reading M A Innes Beautiful Shame 1 and Beautiful Shame 2  ... and will be looking for other similar reads.

Posy Churchgate's piece Driving lessons:Dark Days for the #wickedwednesday theme Driving Lessons was thankfully not my experience during learning to drive, but highlighted all the tropes I worried about when trying to sketch out an "on theme" submission. Was is the driving instructor lusting over the learner driver. Or the overly keen, overly sexual learner seducing the instructor. Was it more or less problematic if I made it a young man seducing an older female instructor? In the end I shelved all of the sketches, because I didn't want to encroach into type of situations Posy had in real life and so, tricky as her experiences were it was interesting to read them to confirm I wasn't stressing over nothing. 

Top three were picked by Indigo Byrd which meant her post Three songs and a hirsute man couldn't be considered. I was glad she posted it there though, otherwise I wouldn't have found it. Enjoyed is very much the wrong word, but I was engaged and benefited from her sharing. 

I want you Clear eyed girl, and Hold me, thrill me, kiss me Hannah Lockhardt, are both gorgeous and thank you to GOTN for tweeting the link to How to kiss a man which is far sexier than I expected. And I came across Pinwheel by Coffee and Kink on a revive and was very glad I did.

Pictures... I'm tiptoeing into the waters of #SInfulSunday posts, but I am loving the images I am finding through these blogs. Be prepared for nakedness. Favorites from this week include...
Reader Inspired, Awaiting Artwork, Naked Confidence, Stuffed, Feet and Inches, and a revive from Rebel's notes  Needles and Pins which made my mouth go dry. 

Other really good stuff that has help me try to stay informed about stuff on the news ... for various reasons and most definitely not all kinky.. although some definitely are...
On Incels and Courtly Love
The women who pay for sex
A beautiful life and death
Orgasms save me from myself

Things I'm looking forward to reading include: 

I've been thwarted by Miss Scarlet's (@MissScarletUK) mishap sending her blog link to her sister... because I am looking forward to reading that post... and that Kayla Lord's blog has been down everytime I've visited it, but her ongoing techie struggles will I hope soon be over. 

Jay Northcote's Second Chance  is downloaded ready to go when I get a quiet few moments... really looking forward to this as I love how his writing feels like it happens in my world... you know.... not America! 

Pedicure

This isn't kinky or wicked. 

Sorry. 

I can't wait till I can write something just from joy again and stop having to apologise for my posts being somewhat tricky. 

For something more uplifting look 

     

                          and       

I had been thinking about feet for Kink of the Week and had been musing about the service of washing someone's feet. It's such a personal, intimate thing. Part of our body that is covered nearly everywhere but in the privacy of our own homes. 

Accepting someone's feet in a less than perfect state is a deep intimacy. Letting someone wash your feet, letting them see you not at your best, letting them serve you in their cleaning, in a foot rub, is symbolic as well as physical. You have to let go of your sense of embarrassment to play with feet.

That was as far as I got before I was distracted by life, but feet were still on my mind. 

This is my love for my slightly toppy best friend K. The one who chose my red dress for Eroticon and was scandalized by my cleavage shots. The one who has held my hand through all the troubles with my boys.  The one who straightens me out in a very Domme like fashion when it comes to all the vanilla sections in my life... and cheerfully plays with the dynamic even though we are not intimate like that. Accepts me with all my quirks and kinks. 

I'm too British to tell my best friend I love her. I'm too frightened of relationships to have told her she's my best friend out loud. 

She's a fragile lady with a chronic health condition, tiny, 5'5" in her heels next to my 6' in stocking feet. Loves to wear bright vibrant colours. While I was away in Barcelona with my kids, she picked up an infection in a caravan on the coast with hers. Just over a week ago, she was taken into hospital. We made a date over messenger for me to come and see her, and I thought a nice thing would be to give her a pedicure...

I cradle your heel in my hand. Run the instep with my thumb. Feel your skin, soft and dry like parchment beneath my fingers.

I barely know where to begin. Can you feel me?

The way I feel for you is exploding from my chest. I trust you can feel that.

I don’t want to stop touching you for a second. But I must. This is supposed to be a pedicure.

The bowl is perched precariously beside us, but I manage to wring out the cloths, test their heat and wrap your feet in their warm blanket. We haven’t got much time, but each second I wait is too long and too short. I dry carefully between your long elegant toes, leave one foot wrapped in a fluffy towel.

I squish moisturiser from the bottle and warm it in my hands. Rub gently but firmly, just how I like it. You are perfectly made, each toe perfectly fitting with the others, tallest to smallest. Your skin thickened but smooth like snake skin, the muscles beneath totally relaxed. I feel the seconds ticking down. Take your left foot.

Your feet, like the rest of you, are tiny compared to me, shorter from heel to toe than my palm and fingers. Fragile. So utterly fucking fragile.

I brought you pink polish. I brought half a dozen colours just in case you had a preference, but since I have chosen for you, I uncap the strong pink I wore for Tris. I think you’ll like it. I paint each nail with shaking hands and blurred eyes, glad for the hair that falls across my face and gives me privacy.

I’m glad I have this. An intimate moment with you. My heart is so full with all the things that need to be said and probably won’t be. In my head, I’m sitting at your kitchen table while you comb my hair. Hugging you while you cry. Being held.

The pink looks good. Summery. Outside the window it is a beautiful day, but here we cannot see the sky or hear the birds. Your window is onto an internal quad, the light made grey by the buildings above us. I blow gently, wondering if there is time for a second coat.

I don’t do wishing. Or regretting. Usually. But right now, I wish I had hung around last week, when you exclaimed over my mermaid hair and shared the pictures of Barcelona. But you were tired and I felt lost. You gave me a task and off I scampered to get it done. Just ten more minutes. I wish I’d stayed. I wish I’d said something then.

They are dry. And perfect. And it is time to say goodbye.

I gather my things, throw the water away in the little corner sink and tidy everything into my bag.

Roll the sheet and the blanket back down and carefully refold the hospital corners.  Hide round the corner, between the bathroom and the door. I can’t be crying. I won’t. But I shake with silent grief that wants to howl and bring the building crashing down on us both. With sobs that retch through me as I bite me lips closed. Until I gather my discipline and let it flow away, stop fighting and accept that you are peaceful.

I slip from the room.

Don’t follow me.  

K is fighting a sepsis infection and had at least one heart attack on Sunday night. Her underlying health condition makes her even more fragile. She is not up to visits at the moment and I am scared she will die (which statistically is more likely than not) and embarrassed that everyone else, her husband and our other friends from church are still unfailingly upbeat and I am hiding behind my computer crying. Embarrassed that I am missing her above worrying how her absence is affecting her family. Perhaps I have to get it out of the way so I can be useful in whatever later brings. 

TMI Five things

This week's TMI Tuesday prompt is five things....

The problem with in me in five words is...

... I respond to things haphazardly

It means if you want to love me you need to put up with the Brownian Motion of my emotions and sensitivities. Some days I am tough as nails, others touch and sound and light sensitive; can carry on quite unaffected in an emergency and will be too fragile to talk to on a normal day... sometimes in the course of an hour or two. This must be more exhausting to live with than to live in. 

Five things...

...I want in life

• my kids to grow up happy, healthy and accepted for who they are
• to be accepted as an equal when I meet with professionals even though my status is currently just "mum"
• to be able to manage my own autism enough to get by without relying on others all the time
• to have family time and couple time without either suffering
• to be able to explore my boundaries

...I need to quit

• worrying about things I cannot change
• procrastination
• deprioritising exercise
• sleeping late in the morning
• making excuses

...I require in a lover

• patience
• a firm hand
• a willingness to use me as I need to be used
• someone who understands this is a journey and my needs may change over time
• support in my vanilla life as well as in my bedroom

...I am tired of

• being told I will get thin if I give up "x" food
• being told my autism can't be bad because I manage to look and act "normal" in most circumstances
• feeling second rate in my own sex life because I don't find my body attractive
• not having time for .... well, insert practically anything here
• feeling I need to hide my submissive tendencies to protect myself in the real world

...I will never reveal on social media

....never say never... but, I talk about my children... so I need stay behind my screen name to give them their right to privacy

   ... access to my bank account

      ...

         ...

            ...nope... that's it. 

Elust, 105

Photo courtesy of Mrs Fever

Welcome to Elust 105

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you're looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it'll be here at Elust. 

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This Month’s Top Three Posts 

I lost my sexuality for a year. 

Stolen Penis 

Bright English Mornings

Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) 

Flavour of Femme 

She Teaches Sex Ed!

Readers Choice from Sexbytes

Katy 

Erotic Fiction

Game On Rites of Passage Training – Sensual Details.
More than Friend's: Chloe's video
Molly: The First Your Canvas
Sometimes I talk too much
His Dirty Rhythm
In case you didn't get fucked last night.
Gossamer
Cataclysm 
The Girl in Fishnets

Erotic Non-Fiction

Let's Play a Game
Abandoning the Sofa
Smacked around a bit
Fuck You [Redacted]

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Meet The Desperate Eye Of Censorship
The Catastrophe of Ageing

Body Talk and Sexual Health

What it's like to model nude for art classes
Tip Your Artists

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Life… grief, depression and disability
Living with Chronic Lyme Disease
Welcome

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

The edge of glory
F/m Reader Q&A (audio with full transcript)
Teasing & Torment
Guest Post: Interview with Violet Fawkes

Events

A landmark event for MPB - Public Play

Poetry

-07.04.18_13:49-    

Food for thought Friday: Dare to Bare

 These days, when the temperature is tip-toeing into the 20s and the sun strokes your skin...

At home, when I can, I like to go without clothes. That's not often unfortunately as I have kids to embarrass and in home care staff. Today though, the kids were out at lessons with the staff I could sort the washing and tidy the bedrooms while the lovely sunshine shone through the windows. God, it felt good.

Outside I am equally relaxed. In the peace of my own garden I am happiest in the buff. We have one of those little spa pools, and summer evening, about 10pm, I will shed my clothes in the kitchen and tiptoe out to soak under the stars.

Not in public though... last time I went topless on a beach was fifteen years and four babies ago. I love swimming in the sea, and thought nothing of shedding my tankini top to go snorkelling. My fiance was shocked. The thought that I might be ok baring all came as a bit of a surprise to him. I pointed out the beach was full of very minimally dressed young ladies, but they were not me. My boobs were just for him. Apparently.

We were much more vanilla and straitlaced in those days and now much less so. Just me and him on a beach, no problem. Last week a topless photo for Sinful Sunday. He was so proud when a picture of a rope bikini he'd created received kind comments and completely unworried by displaying it on my body.

Now, I just have to worry about traumatizing my children!

This sort of comfort in my body is very important to me because my body isn't the type you normally see naked in the media. Definitely not built for speed. But it's what I've got and I can either be ashamed or make peace with bits overstretched by multiple pregnancies and a few other medical issues.

It is a body capable of some wonderful things. Orgasms... mine... and sometimes, if he's lucky, my husband's. It's made and fed children and in the process went from a C cup to an F. Oops.

In public, I am usually modestly dressed. Neck to ankle. Mostly draped in jersey as I'm a bit touch sensitive. But I am always naked in that I don't wear knickers except on very special occasions (last time my best friend took my on an impromptu shopping trip I had to stop and buy knickers before I could try anything on). I love the naughtiness and the comfort. I love that no-one could guess when they walk past me in the supermarket, sit next to me in church or face me in a professionals meeting at school. It is a little bit of rebellion in a very normal package.

Nakedness doesn't necessarily turn my thoughts to sex, but access to my own body, access to someone else's, does. I love to touch skin with skin. I love to be touched. Love heavy touch.

Love the way sun feels, like a warm stroking hand, heavy on my skin.

Not so reticent about stripping off anymore.

The cost of sexual assault

This is not so much a Wicked Wednesday… but despite mulling the topic all week, I have really struggled to think sexy thoughts about money.

Here is my trigger warning folks…I’ve just spent the day fighting the Criminal Injuries Compensation Authority over semantics in the case of my children’s claim. This has no sexiness to it, but since it will never make a storyline in a soap opera and I think it is worth knowing about I want to open up about it here. The only link is that is it about the monetary value placed on sex.

I watch people’s faces turn to “slapped with a wet fish” or “sucked a lemon” when I talk about what happened to my children. The thing is, they are human beings growing up, who I want to be happy and healthy. And to me, being sex positive means I consider their future should probably include sex to be those things. I write that under the proviso that I have made a statistical judgement here… if sex is not your thing and turns out to not be theirs, I’m fine with that too.

Today’s joy was trying to argue that my child was raped, even though the CPS chose to drop the charge against his abuser at trial. Here’s the thing. The abuser had been caught for assaults on five children. When you reach two charges of rape, among the many other sexual offences against children he was charged with, the starting tariff on sentencing rises. He had admitted in interview to raping my second child. When it came to trial, he admitted something like 45 of the 60 charges in front of him, ranging from child pornography to rape. To save the children from having to testify, the CPS decided that was enough of a sample and dropped the rest. They said they were pleased with the result. He got 10 years, with parole available after 6 years 8 months. 

In interview, my child described being orally raped.

We have made an application for compensation in the children’s names for being victims of crime.  Child number two gets the full award for being raped. Child number one gets fifty percent, because despite being well below the age of consent, the most serious sex act the abuser was charged with in his case was that he forced my child to penetrate him. I never imagined having to fight out the difference in financial value they place on anal and oral sex and on sexual assault where the one being assaulted is forced into an act of penetration. I never thought about what level of proof was necessary to prove oral rape.  

And the amounts are paltry. £16,500 is the maximum payout for the child they accept was raped multiple times.

We have spent upwards of £70,000 so far on supporting the children and safeguarding them over the past years since the assaults. Both children are disabled and have acted out on the new information they got about how friends behave to each other from their abuser… so for a long time have had to have round the clock support to make sure they didn’t accidentally assault each other or their other sibling, or friends.

We have had to fight to get therapy for them. In the UK, for children, the support comes at first instance from a charity who give you 20 sessions. As the children are disabled by their autism, this didn’t work for them and we had to persuade Social Services we needed more specialised treatment, which only happened when one of them said they’d touched their sibling. There is no NHS counselling or trauma recovery. At least not in our area. We have no private health insurance to buy in such a thing and services are very scattered. Our psychologist drives a 200 mile round trip to see the children each week. When a break came in her funding and we had to apply for more, it took nearly 3 months to get the continuation approved for a further 12 weeks. 

There are very important conversations coming about from campaigns about assaults on adults. Very important. But what actually happens when a child has been assaulted is astonishing opaque and the availability of services and funding astonishingly small.  Disabled children are four times more likely to be sexually assaulted than their able peers. As they cannot necessarily access “mainstream” services, there is often little in place to support them. Certainly, no financial packages. No go-to support services. They have no voice.

That £16,500 will become available to my middle son when he turns 18. Until then the state will look after it, as it depreciates. It cannot be used to buy in the support he needs now. “It is not for paying for treatment” said the disembodied voice on the phone when I rang to ask why everything was taking so long. “You can apply before he is 18 for treats like a new bike or computer, but it is compensation, not for services like a carer”.

So a million dollars. I wouldn’t turn it down right now.