Wednesday, 6 September 2017

After the storm

This week's Wicked Wednesday has proven to be a challenge. I don't do eye-contact. With anyone other than my children, even eye to face contact is only the product of lots of thought and self conditioning. And only because neuro-typical people expect it. It probably doesn't occur to none autistics, that in some people's universes, you are the weird ones!

Several otherwise strong ideas came and bit the dust. My characters do make eye contact sometimes. Usually if they need something to cling to while being ravished! There was the temptation to go the Dirty Dancing route as eye contact in a dance is something I could lean on. 

This is the opposite. I'd started writing...just the first impressions of the weekend, because I'd thought to write through an anger attack,- a meltdown,- to see if it helped. To verbalise all of the fragmentary parts and physicality of it all, because when it is gone, it is gone and explaining it to someone else, whether counselor or loved one, is difficult. 

We stay strong and I don't know how we do it. I asked my husband who he would like to be in my writing,- he said Omega Delta- the difference in the end. And that is what he is. The difference between me being a refugee between war zones in my own head and a functioning parent in difficult circumstances. 

Never able to eye-fuck like Baby and Johnny, for me it is something I don't miss and I have to trust when he says it isn't important in our communication. So this story, born of a mix of real stress and fiction is probably quite personal because, in this case, I can't put myself in another person and imagine what the character is getting from the experience. 

I’m angry.

Violently, chemically, unsettled. Blood poisoned with epinephrine is overwhelming my reactions. Restless muscles. Aching joints.

And through this flood, my otherwise overwhelmed voice of quiet searches for clues and triggers, because nothing has happened. Nothing.

Nothing that would cause this much anger in a … in a …

I want to say “real person”. “Rational person.” Hateful phrases that feed the anger and completely negate everything I know about myself. Make me less.  

The quiet voice speaks. At least I’m not… I stop myself because for some people experiencing this without a trigger would be normal too. And is not their fault either.

There is so much going on. Grief. Trauma. Stress. Autism. I let the quiet voice pick it all apart and put the pieces back in their rightful places, but it doesn’t actually fix anything. Doesn’t reduce the physical reactions. Dim the swirling trip of off-kilter brightness that throws my balance and burns my throat with bile. Staunch the grey black wave of sadness that washes cold through the ashes of anger, tightening my skin into goose-flesh and shivering through tense muscles.

Everything about me is screaming to be left alone. If my voice had not deserted me I would be screaming in truth. Every sound is pain, the muted colours and light of my room still pursue me with violence. I cannot bear to see, let alone look for you. Too exhausted, I crawl to my bed.

Found, you do not come to me with a gentleness I can fight. Straddling my body, you lay as much of your weight as I can take down the length of me, legs trapping mine, chest cupped by the small of my back. Your head on my shoulders.

The exhaustion wars with anger and even in my wrung-out state, I want to fight more. Want to buck your weight clear, be alone in body as I am in mind, trapped in this battle state. Sensing this, through my tiny impatient twitches, you smother me more, arms moving to pin, more weight pushing me under.

The quiet voice has heard you, felt you, and is clinging to your breathing pattern, deliberately regular and seemingly relaxed. Guilt is the new tsunami, welling deep and soaking through me physically and pushing hot tears into the pillow. It rips you bare when I am like this. Helpless to stop it, we both have to take the beating, each from the other. Stoic in our love: rampaging in our weakness.

We lie, while lights dim to fragmented twilight and at some point, your protective stance becomes a spooned embrace. The wildness is subdued and humanity returns with uncertain footsteps as a refugee returns to a shattered landscape, searching for familiar landmarks through the carnage. The warmth of your skin. Breath against my nape. Heartbeats.

More in tune with me than I am with myself, you sense when I am ready. Hands that calmed become fingers that explore. Entrapped becomes possessed. Body soft and pliant and available.

With vampire-soft kisses you refuel from my body. Clothes pushed aside tangle around my docile limbs.

Our coupling is just that, quiet and passionless like pale watery skies after a storm. In that peace, we can find each other. Rebuild. An apology and a promise.

Darkness blesses us with sleep and space. We drift apart seek each other out like flotsam on the tide. Our bodies turn, clothes are shed and succor taken from night lit mating. I push you to take from me as selfishly as I took from you. Balance, not guilt, driving my needs. Our animal selves lick their wounds and retreat. 

Stirring with the first light, I capture fresh images of your face. The pale grey at your temples and in the scruff of your stubble. The lines creeping, even in sleep, at the corner of your eyes. The picture I hold of you in my heart is made of such fragments as these. Your weight. Your breath. The gold and hazel flecks in your eyes shimmering as they open and focus, the pupil’s wild expansion and contraction as you come into conscious thought. Folds in your eyelids and long soft strawberry blonde lashes.

I linger too long, and as your keen eyes open, my gaze strikes away, like a stone skimming a lake. Gathering me to the crook of your neck, we hold each other and you kiss my salt-glazed face.  We are ok.

We start another day. 

Sunday, 3 September 2017

Sinful Sunday: playing with company

Sinful Sunday

As the title of my blog suggests, writing is something I do when I'm on my own. 

Sinful Sunday might well turn out to be something I participate in to celebrate not being on my own. 

Wednesday, 30 August 2017

She wears no knickers

I love history, and where history and fashion meet to tell the story of women and religion and prudery I made a decision and gave up knickers. It was either that or trying to find something to stretch comfortably around nine months of pregnancy. 

I think, being honest it was the latter, but it is the former that has saved me from running back to Marks and Sparks and replacing my sensible cover-alls because they don't add anything to my life other than to the washing pile. They don't make me more modest. I haven't worn a knee length or shorter skirt in years. I don't climb out of cars with my knees akimbo. Like ladies from a bygone age I am perfectly "ladylike" without pants. 

But it is more than that. I feel in touch with myself (no puns intended even if it is KOTW). My body is sexual when I like. Functional when I like. I don't wear a sign on the outside in the form of lace and satin or granny pants to say what I am and when. I am not ashamed or overly proud, not focussed on sex or hiding myself away. 

Like everyone else I am naked beneath my clothes. 

And sometimes....sometimes it gives me a naughty little smile because I know I am maybe just that little more naked than the next girl. 

She wears no knickers beneath her wedding dress. I know it as surely as the groom and damn it if my brain had no idea what to do with that thought. Her colours are firmly pinned to his mast. Her cream on his dick. Good on him.

It doesn’t mean I can’t remember the feel of her unfettered arse through a summer dress. Coarse fabric dragging against peach-skin soft skin. The imagined heat and scent of her on the air, as though a tiny scrap of cotton and lace could have truly made a difference.

Women surround me in dresses designed to entice and she, shrouded in ivory from shoulder to floor is still the one who raises my pulse. I wonder if they would utter “she has no shame” if they knew. She has no shame and needs no shame. She is herself. Glorious. Unbound. Free.

Neatly shaved pussies hiding behind sexy lingerie in a peek-a-boo of show and tell above sharp heels and painted toes. Prizes, if I coax and beg. Part of a language, a bargain. Dressed to enhance their worth. But her generous cunt, given without conditions, naked and wanton made me feel like I was something to her. Alive and valued and vital.

I wonder if I told her that. Wonder if it will spill as we drunkenly circle the floor this evening in time honoured tradition before moshing our way through Bohemian Rhapsody. That she spoiled me and I’m sorry that I never told her.

His hand smooths over the silk draped curves as he greets her, and they share a smile laced with knowledge. Carnal. Intimate. A smile laced with promise.

She wears no knickers beneath her wedding dress and I let her go.

Tuesday, 29 August 2017

Fresh Ink

Celebrity. So many options. Open doors. 

And some firmly closed. It will take a brave man...perhaps I'll write his story one day.

The new tattoo looked good. The font impressive and still clear enough to read every syllable. He was so glad he’d kept his skin clear, waiting for this chance. This message.

The word he’d hated when being Beckham was all important. Couldn’t just be mid-field. Had to be good on the left, the right, in fucking defence. But then the word that had defined his career and now it would define him. He wasn’t a number. Wasn’t a position. Ask any fucking pundit. Ask his first crush. This was what he was in every sense of the word.

The crap he’d taken to get here. Ten years since he’d debuted for the first team. Eight since his first cap. Fifteen years of saying and doing nothing. Of planning. Of silence and loneliness in the middle of a crowd of seventy five thousand.

It wasn’t just the word. It could easily be interpreted as just that. A homage to a glorious career, now entering the closing chapters. Not quite at the Come Dancing stage, but definitely the quiet negotiations for a final three years at the top, then a quiet trip to LA or the JFL or wherever was paying the money by then. Or perhaps not.

It was the placement. Slung low across his stomach, just kissable above the flat elastic of his Versace skivvies. His stylist had loved it when he brought up the idea at the shoot last month. The script chosen to complement a brand he knew would stay with him.

The call had come through late last night. Probably seconds after a flustered HR girl had seen the proofs from the latest magazine shoot. A week to the pre-season camp. Transfer window still open.

No club manager got upset about new ink, which meant he knew what it meant.

No real person lost their job over a non-visible tattoo.

No footballer should be afraid of losing thousands of fans, or having shirts burnt or letter peeled. Of tweets or newspapers or chants from the terraces. And he wasn’t. Not afraid anymore.

He wouldn’t lose his job. Wouldn’t be forced into a transfer. The interviews were lined up. His team was fully onside with Attitude on speed dial.

Still alone though. He would still be alone bar a quick, quiet, well-paid fuck. But perhaps there would be a proper opportunity now. After all, he was not as alone now as when he first planned this.

Fifteen fucking years to get here. From the moment he first knew the word fit.

Waiting for Lions on his shirt. To roar and make men proud. To be someone people respected.

Now he was in a position to respect himself.


Wednesday, 23 August 2017


Flying. Oh Lord, I've wanted to this week but I am grounded in regrets and demands.

Stood on the cliff edge ready to soar like an eagle and instead I teeter and cling. Leapt from the plane to find the strings on the parachute cut.

Can't relax to be touched, though my heart needs picking up and dusting off.

So not the brief, but I was seeking comfort. Trying to comfort eat something healthier than chocolate. Trying to avoid drinking. Smoked salmon...and the blank page became this.

The strangest things remind me of you.

The sweet, firm flesh of smoked salmon and I am eating you out. My whole being is there, from the solid land under itchy blanket to the slightly acrid smell of your rollies clinging to your clothes.

Gin and Elderflower, bitter and savoury with the scent of grass, and the bad festival music plays brash and crass in my memories. My tongue sliding against smooth skin, lips kissing coarse hair, the overwhelming scent of hot flesh and want.

Knicker elastic biting into a softly padded crease where thigh meets arse. In picture. In person. Beneath my fingers. Damp sweat and beer, a living breathing presence where tentative licks and dabs are our first touch of home base.

Unskilled kisses, my hands fumbling under your sweater. Stiff, fabric and broderie anglais shaping you into pointed peaks. The frustration of thick fabric hiding your nipples and the clumsiness of my fingers.

Frustrated, I pushed you back and popped the stud on your jeans. Your laugh, still familiar, but never earthier, as you lifted your hips and dragged clinging jeans down your pale, downy thighs.

I miss you. Miss who we were.

Tuesday, 15 August 2017

Sticking to the Black and White

Ok.... trigger warning...which is why the Wicked Wednesday sign is here right at the top creating some space... Go away if a reference to sex abuse is a trigger for you. I'm sorry to include it here, but this is important to my backstory and will undoubtedly influence my writing from time to time.

In the recent past,  I was at the IPCC misconduct hearing of the police officer who made mistakes that allowed an identified sex offender to apply to work in my home, and ultimately commit further sexual assaults. 

Their barrister gave reasons in evidence as to why they had allowed mistakes to happen. They were all completely trivial. Mainly they were included because months before, when the mistakes had been uncovered, they had been full of bluster and self defense. 

The reasons they had tried to work on the case, where they were out of their depth, were more important. They wanted to learn about this line of work. Wanted to improve their own knowledge. Wanted to help other people in the future. 

They wanted to apologise and I was not ready to hear it until I had made my mind up on the evidence. I didn't want them to think words were enough to fix this. But then I heard about the steps they had taken to improve their practice, their time with offender units and social services looking at the damage missing an early chance to stop someone could do and I accepted their apology.

They were found guilty of multiple counts of misconduct. The chairperson of the enquiry then turned to the two parties of interest...myself and representatives of another caught up in the offending that followed. 

Did we want the officer dismissed?

Ask me when I found out about their mistakes. YES. Ask me if I'd read their first "defense" rather than explanation.YES. 

Ask me now? Ask the other representatives now?

We asked that they be allowed to keep their job, and the chair told us this was the defining and only reason they were not dismissed. 

Why am I saying this now? 

Partly because you don't know me. I am anonymous here. This reference to my "other"life allows me to let out the emotions without you knowing me. And you won't know the police officer from Eve either. 

And this is not a self-righteous thing either, but I have had to think a lot about what a gift forgiveness is. The morning after I had forgiven them I felt lightheaded. Literally reeling. It didn't feel good, but I knew in the longer term, their being an officer was probably going to be a positive thing. 

When making an apology I think about the old prayer from being a child at church. When we confessed in the Church of England we asked to be forgiven for 
"thoughtlessness, weakness and our own deliberate fault" against God and persons unknown. 

The first two I could see. Easily. The first two I could forgive. We really were persons unknown

Deliberate fault. From me much harder to forgive. Good job I'm not God. 

Twitter has been full of angst recently. Lots of forums I follow too. World politics. The whole world is angry. 

Things are black and white in their immediacy. 

Stepping back everything becomes greyer. 

I am not just sex positive, but life positive. We learn and move forward. We teach the ignorant. We put forward better, more persuasive points of view. We cannot make up for things that are wrong in the past, or beyond our own actions, but we can demonstrate the tools to improve things. 

So my story...

Sticking to the Black and White

The view from my window was apt. Enough storeys to quite literally look down on the world. I couldn’t look at him, so I watched tiny people doing things that from here looked quite meaningless.

He was kneeling still. Not a perfect position, but one that showed his genuine emotion taut in the stretched sinew at his ankle, the tight muscles of his shoulder line. He was sorry. But was it enough?

Fuck it all, I’m angry with him! Or, I was. Something that is mine and he shared it with his blog readers as though it was no more personal than a holiday snap. I’m just so tired and disappointed, irritated as though his transgression was an insect bite I cannot ignore. Perhaps the start of anaphylaxis. God knows, I think of what he’s done and I nearly can’t breathe.

But then I am to blame. I think. People don’t have the power to hurt us if we don’t give them that power.

Bullshit. I am not a cartoon. Individuals crawl under our skin without a second thought from our conscious brain, and they can colour our lives or let us down in the same vein.

I am to blame for embarrassing him. I could have handled my response differently, but it was just so immediate, so hot a flame that I called him out in public. His peers and mine. On fucking twitter.

So… I sit here, musing about forgiveness as though it was a one way street. The power in our sex lives rests with me. He looks to me to be strong in other areas too. His family. His friends. I encouraged him into this public dissection of our lives and wasn’t strong enough or involved enough to make sure he didn’t fuck up.

I thought he was able to negotiate this without… without this. This clusterfuck that I am unable to ignore or sweep away with another orgasm from his talented body.

He is a puppy. My pup…or I wouldn’t be so fucking… Shit. I just don’t know anymore.

And that is just it. I am with him because of those traits. He was my discovery. I loved to show off his creativity and revelled in his excitement until it became my own. I loved to show him new things, in bed and out and loved the uncensored joy and exuberance he brought to my black and white world.  

When he first posted an almost dick-pic I let it go. It wasn’t tasteful, but it was honest and raw and I respected that. I remembered him being that hard for me and glowed with pride, but hoped no-one could see it. That pride was private.

I did take him to task when a few months later, his cock bounced into life in a post again. But the meme he followed, the one where I introduced him to, had a theme of anticipation and again, I could see his train of thoughtlessness. He had forgotten that sight was now just mine. It was an old picture, from before our time and worse, taken by a previous lover. I raged, but rationalised that he would learn. I fucked him through my anger and into our mutual pleasure, because that was, in that second, more important than correction and practice and all the fucking basic ground work I should have done to make sure we didn’t end up here.

My thoughts are tortuous and while I think, he kneels in supplication, each second I deny him forgiveness mentally pulling him down.

I think I have to cut him loose. He shared his pleasure with his blog followers when it was meant to be all for me. His blog followers that include my friends. I am so fucking embarrassed. Some of them will know that is not what I expect. Some of them will know how rules work.

Like I said. Black and white.

I can’t be associated with him anymore. Can’t let …Who are these people I am so frightened of?

A few hundred people saw his post. Of whom I know a few tens.

Most of whom will have discounted his fuckwittery as just that and will assume I am beating some sense into him right now. Or at least would have done had I not exploded our entire relationship on fucking twitter. Now it is my followers. A good couple of thousand. And some I want to impress.

Why the fuck did I do that?

He could be kneeling now and I could be anticipating the correction. Not that it is fun, but the joy when he’s forgiven can have spectacular results.

Now he has to go.

My fault, or his?

Sunday, 6 August 2017


The nearly blank page was stained with the line "Experience is what you make of it and I am one who loves the clarity and rush of endorphins." I don't know if that is me, or the character for this piece. Certainly, it is not the easily accessible version of me. The clean and tidy public version. Perhaps I like to think it was left in the angst of teenage self harming? The search for something I couldn't ask anyone else to give me. 

I love writing the dark side of erotica. Like eating spicy chili. I could have felt the brush of her breast as she leant across me. Her breath on my cheek. Perhaps I did, subconsciously. But the prompt dropped me here without a second thought. 

Thank you Marie for your super prompts that drag me out of the daily grind. Last weeks glorious, soaring music, played through noise reducing headset whilst I met my new Doxy for the first its beautiful and fictionalized version of course... didn't appear on paper in time for the deadline for Wicked Wednesday, but your ideas continue to be an inspiration. Perhaps it will appear here eventually. This week I have gone with the prompt. If you can't work out what it was...follow the link. Or enjoy the story without. 

The difference between me and the teenager with a knife, is that peace from letting go is available without the input of physical pain. 

But sometimes eating chili is exactly what you want. 

Experience is what you make of it and I am one who loves the clarity and rush of endorphins.

Reclined in the embrace of the leatherette chair, I center myself in the moment. Externally, I’m responding to questions and comments because this is definitely a situation where informed consent is important, but inside I am already anticipating the dull lance probing raw nerves.

Outwardly, it is about pride. The duel is between me and the pain. The promise not to flinch or pull away. This is the convention of our society. To be tough and defiant. We are so black and white, either brave or coward, proud or weak. There is something beyond this though, something to be found in embracing or letting go. The infra-red or ultra violet of humanity. A thing we choose to ignore, to not even develop language to discuss. That is what I am anticipating.

This woman leaning over me, is just the tool. I am sure she is competent, but to a point that makes her irrelevant.

I am surfing this wave for me. Climbing this mountain for me.

I have walked into this room free and whole knowing she is going to hurt me. This should worry me. Scare me. But I am floating at the thought. Free and ashamed in the same moment.

The first scratch of a needle. A sting with an icy tail.

I have time to think and send a silent apology for using her this way. Then I forget her, forget the chair and the intrusively bright lights and sink into each raw second.

Vibration. Each nerve is woken in turn and like frightened animals the messages race away. I should run with them, pull away from the strangeness. The battle is only with myself. I stand as a solider at post, accepting the intensity increase through slowly creeping minutes from something intense to something beyond. I want to say unbearable, but that isn’t true. The cliff edge of bearable recedes rather than racing closer. To fight is to lose. In letting go, I win.

With little effort, you have led me to a place where the scrape and probe of each of your tools is a bright spark of brilliance. Where the silent scream of a nerve is a lightning show, spreading in magnificence through the wide sky. Time slows. Each flickering fork tears me free with a unique beauty.

Something snaps, breaks free. Finally, swimming in the night black sea. Tumbling formless. Timeless. Until the destroyed becomes recreated.

Even returning is not mundane. Each shiny, shimmering jigsaw piece falls into position and becomes clear, but special in itself. Each takes its moment of focus before it is normal. The new normal. Sharpened senses burn with fragrance previously ignored. Metallic taste of blood and fear. Tension returning to muscles.

Energy. Exhilaration and exhaustion swirl and merge until there is no telling one from the other.
Stepping through the doors allows the final pieces to fall. I am returned. Aware of the residuals. The wobbly knees. The discomfort, suddenly a bad thing. The sweat trickling like cum down the inside of my thigh.

The waiting room has flowers and a fish tank. Children’s books and a few obtuse customers.

Incongruous, I make my way home.

Sunday, 23 July 2017


When you're in the moment, a really good, juicy moment, it should be easy to shut out the rest of the world. It should at least be possible. Writing about that type of moment needs the same sort of focus. Recently, the real world has been clamouring for my attention to the extent that my focus, pretty much all of Alethea vanished. I hate letting her go, but sometimes...the rest of my life has to be more important.

Then I received an email notification of a book review for something I wrote a few years ago and it reminded me I enjoy writing, enjoy being Alethea as an escape. And this afternoon I have been able to leave life doing it's thing and hit the keyboard.

I think this might well be the start of something longer. I hope so. Someone caught in a moment. I'll worry about how sustainable that moment might be later.

And yes... there is a nod to the World Para-Athletics in there.


“Hey! Whatcha think you’re doing?”

I was pretty sure what she thought she was doing. Advancing towards me, the flirt in her eye now predatory and hard. Hand on my chest, pushing me back against the black stage curtain. She didn’t answer me and I realised this was another rule in the game. And for shit was I going to show myself up, admitting I was lost. Never read the fucking rules was the only rule I’d ever needed.

She was un-nerving, but the guy with the dark eyes and hard jaw, who hovered at the edge of my peripheral vision, he was just plain scary. Her nail found the gap between shirt buttons and ran teasingly down my chest and electric shivers burnt across my skin.

“Ungh!” Oh shit. Never did that sound come from my mouth, but man, her thigh was powerful against my junk and her lips moved against my jaw and fuck me if I was going to stop her. And if he wanted to watch, then, I’m down with that. I mean, I’m a fucking god on stilts and who wouldn’t want to watch me fuck.

Perhaps we could make this more private.

“You want to come to my hotel? I’ve got a room to myself and ….” Fucking dork. I’ll be telling them, telling her, that I travelled without my mum soon. Of course I fucking did! Score myself a hot cougar and I’m acting like a kid.

“Think you can handle that?” God, her voice was husky. Shouting for me on the track? Dick for brains, I showed her I could, moving her hand till my cock pressed eagerly against her palm. And she pressed back, tits smooshed against my ribs, rubbing sinuously, ‘til I let my eyes close.

Hot breath, roaming lips, teeth nipping my ear lobe and I’m humping her hand like that had become an event in itself. Roar of blood as deafening as the roar of a home crowd. “Come on then, baby.”  Come on anymore and I’d come in my pants and then…

And then the grip was tighter, surer. Another hand heavy on my shoulder. I scrunched my eyes tighter as thought keeping them closed could close off the other senses. But I could smell him. Expensive. Subtle. Cologne. Taller too, his nose nudging my temple, lips dry as they skimmed across my cheek towards her.

I heard them kiss, the breath and slap of skin. The feather of air across my lips as they kissed, pinned as they jacked me to the edge of insanity. I mean, that had to be why I hadn’t made my horror known. Why the moan that escaped me was all sex and no disgust.

His mouth turned on me, hard and demanding and the hand that rose to push him away clung to his shirt and the bunched bicep beneath. She whispered how hot we were and I preened at her praise even as I fought to hold my own in the kiss. A battle in teeth and tongue and lips. And that hand. Their hands. His fingers, long and knowledgeable, curled around my balls and dipping behind. Hers cupping the head just enough to play with the ridge as I rutted against her. Them.

Breaking for air seemed to be by some sort of mutual agreement and our hands slowed and relaxed. His forehead rested heavily against my hair, her face against my neck, their panted breaths hot and sweet against sweat dampened skin.

Opening my eyes, I was ready to laugh it off. Some sort of dare or challenge and fuck knows I never backed down from those. And shit, it wasn’t as though I’d hidden my appreciation of the slightly more experienced ladies from my friends. But this quiet backstage area was just as still and empty as it had been when she’d taken my hand and pulled me through the curtains. Just us. Three of us.

“So.” I cleared my throat to remove the pre-pubertal quiver. “We doing this shit?”

“You good?” His question was valid even though his thumb was tucked into my belt, fingers trailing against a hard-on as solid as my legs.

“Yeah, mate. Not quite what I was expecting, but…yeah… bring it on.”

I felt his smile twitch against my cheek.

“She’s not like…bait or something is she?”

She huffed and nipped at my throat “No, she isn’t… we’re a package deal or we can be single options not bait.”  

“Fair point.” To be honest my mind is so blown in this moment I don’t know what that means, but it’s all good.

“What she means is, you can say no to us, or me, if that’s what you want.”

My dick chose that moment to remind me with a dancing pulse towards his fingers, that, although this was not what I’d anticipated, there was more I wanted.

“No, mate. Like I said, I’m good if you are. Should I, like, order a taxi or…”

She gripped my jaw and turned my face to hers. “This is the big city. We can get a cab outside whenever you’re ready.”

My pride bristled a bit at that. Like a lot. I’ve travelled the world in the last 18 months and these sports awards are just the latest jaunt. And Brisbane is not exactly the sticks.

Then she dropped to her knees and my heart rate broke the safe training ceiling. “Whenever, you’re ready.”

Monday, 15 May 2017

The Contradiction

I don't imagine there is a person out there who can manage the stresses life throws at us all the time. I see acquaintances on twitter and through this blog who are being tossed in a sea of unfairness and demand. Much as I want to be able to knock out an interesting 500 words bi-weekly, sometimes the demands of having special children and a social care and education system who cannot deliver bespoke packages to complex needs, means that I can't. 

Sometimes I cannot even show love to the man who loves me and supports me because stress, worries and emotional fatigue destroy the most basic blocks of who we are:-our appetites, our energy and our safety and trust. 

So this is it. My demands of him verbalised. My demands so I can show him loving service as our relationship deserves. As he deserves. And that is the contradiction. 

This is the moment I need your most sensitive touch. Not the buzz of a toy or even the gentlest of fingers. I am not ready for physical. I am too worried to be present in my own body.

I need touch that goes beyond lover to love itself. The safety and security of being held. Time to allow the heat of your skin beneath mine, the reassurance of your steady heartbeat, the tickle of chest hair reawakening my senses, to pull me back from this space in my head to space where you can reach me.

I need you to wait for me. To know me and read me and wait for the moment you can demand anything from my body, however long that takes. Don’t let me wallow, but don’t let me drown.

I don’t need you to carry my burdens. I need you to strengthen me, so I can carry them.

I need your demand, because without it I am a shell, bumping along without proper connection to anything, washed in this endless tide of noise.

I need the offering of myself, which has been so ineffectual in solving anything today, to be something you value and find worthy.

I need you to coax something beautiful from me when I feel wrung out and empty.

Let me make you happy. Let something I do, something I am, be something special.

Feed me. Tend me. Restore me.

Then let me serve you. 

Tuesday, 2 May 2017

World Traveller

Before I get into my story, I need to say thank you to Marie for these prompts. As a total beginner, they give me the discipline to get writing and to be read.

My experience with law enforcement has unfortunately all been on the serious victim side so not really given my any material, but I hope this brush with another arm of the law is arresting enough.  

World traveller they call it in the high street. That casual look that fills me with envy at the airport. A selection of comfy, slung together textures and pale colours, slightly worn to show you’ve been here before.

I haven’t. Not alone. Not racing to get to you on the other side of the world because you’ve called and asked me to. But like everything else, I’m faking it, down to my cute little retro 60s hand luggage. My only luggage.

Lord, I want to be with you. It’s been weeks. Set up with Skype, we’ve skirted the line of international law with some of the things we’ve done on voip call, but nothing can replace the touch of another hand. Your touch.

Trying to look casual, I slip out of my boots and take the baggie of liquids from my inside pocket. Coat in another tray, I look at the blandly bored young man on the scanner and wonder just how many dildos and vibrators pass through his sight every day. To place the little retro case on the rollers is taking all my nerve. I assume an air of calm I definitely do not feel.

Stepping through the body scanner, the high-pitched whinge of the machine distracts me. I’ve prepared everything, and nothing about me should be bleeping right now.  Following instructions, I step back through and despite the inner fluster, I convince myself it is an anomaly. Deep breath, step forward and the scanner shrieks again. I can see my hand luggage piling up at the bottom of the rollers and I want to go retrieve it, but a strong hand guides me aside. Feet apart. Arms up. Hand scanner first, then pat down.

And I hate myself, but that was enough to start the descent. So desperate to see you, so focused on this sexy break we’d manufactured. The firm sweep of the back of a hand down the outside of my breast and I was tipped into my kinky place.

The escort took me to a paper room just feet from the busy queues, and then a second appeared with my jacket and case. Opened them up on the counter. Talking to me, my brain refused to register the words, as everything I had packed for you was laid out on a stark white camping table. Our favourite glass dildo, the plug I planned to prepare with as soon as I was checked in, the little velvet bag of clamps and the less dainty bottle of lube. Hot. Cold. Exposed. Excited.

A fraction of my brain stayed with them, but the rest of me was high and floating. I must have mumbled responses, or perhaps even delivered them with confidence, but that was somewhere else on the outside.

She was efficient. Business-like. Firm. The embodiment of my authoritarian crush. And through the haze, I opened the buttons on my carefully creased linen shirt, exposed the satin and lace creation I had chosen for you and hoped the flush across my breasts could be mistaken for embarrassment.

The room was thin and although brightly lit, shadows of the crowds outside added to the exposure. Her hands were warm, sweeping under my shirt, her chest brought to mine as she checked under the clasp and straps before tracing forward. Close enough to smell her shampoo. To imagine she was your handmaid.

I want to tell you her fingers sweeping my hot skin under the tight wiring of my new bra were humiliating. Embarrassing. That this exposure in near public was uncomfortable and frightening. That the final swirling sweep of palm over lace was some kind of final straw. But it wasn’t. It was the door fantasies as yet unexplored and a window in time back to lovers of a more feminine flavour.

The hand scanner again and once more the angry beeping. Just a Marks and Spencer’ bra she says, and bids me to fasten my shirt. I tuck myself away, my case is repacked and the roar of the busy airport returns in full force.

She sends me on my way and when I rush to the cool quiet of the ladies’ room to repair my blush, I am both bright eyed and distant to my own mirrored gaze.

World traveller. Experienced, but searching for more. Here, on my way to you, a flash of the old in her certain hands and the exposure of those thin paper walls I have travelled a few more miles and found a place I might need to explore some more. With you next time.

Sunday, 30 April 2017


I was feeling really good. Molly had recommended a piece of my writing in elust 93 and nothing new was going wrong at home. But my hands were really uncomfortable, as if I'd punched something. Quick trip to the no typing. With a new blog this felt like a bit of a disaster, but I figured I was best to do as told. Really I know I should have written a post to explain, but with such a new blog I didn't know what to say.
But my hands didn't get better. They ached. Then the swelling began. There are lots of new ideas spilling round in my head about the complete helplessness of having your hands turn against you. Not just useless, but painful. 
It looks like arthritis. Checks are being done and for now the flare up is under control enough to type.
Tonight's post is a gentle one to ease me back in. This couple have been with me for a long time, and when I need to get writing I turn to them. I turn to him when I need shelter. Turn to her when I want to celebrate the power of touch to put things back together. They are dancing...neither quite sure of the steps. Trying hard to keep this about their physical desires and needs and not about their rather battered hearts. But then I habitually write

The glow from the streetlights couldn’t hide how pale and tired she was. He wanted to bring her in to his arms, but instead he stepped back to allow her into his home. She’d started talking, something about traffic, and had thrown her sports bag and yoga mat casually against the wall. She was all over the place tonight.

Silence fell as she perched on the end of his sofa. He wished this room looked less like the drawing room of an elderly maiden aunt, but before this, whatever this was, it had only been used when his mother or Shannon’s came to visit. He’d always thought it would turn into a cosy space to relax when they knocked through… and he was as off kilter as she was this evening. He took a deep breath and let it escape slowly, deliberately, blowing out till he felt his stomach muscles tighten and holding back on the reflex to breathe took effort.

Her eyes darted nervously from his chair to the window, his knees to the table, before settling on the tea tray. The ritual. He poured for her, and then for himself. Lemon and ginger this evening. He wanted her hydrated and calm before they went upstairs. When she became still and silent like this, it wasn’t the peace he wanted for her, it was a rigidity. Deliberately freezing as though that would render her invisible.

They didn’t speak as they sipped their drinks. He watched her, read her and didn’t need words to know this had been one shitty week. Did she even notice him, he wondered. Everything they did in these sessions was designed to keep the focus on her and for that, his routine began a clear hour before she was due to arrive. There was nothing domestic to distract, no post by the door, no smell of his evening meal. He was showered and dressed for her and he took that time to shed the day, to shed the outside and be ready for her.
No-one held her but him. He suspected very few even physically touched her in the course of her week. Not even Sam. Not with any deliberate intention to give her pleasure, anyway. It was a monogamous relationship of sorts, as no-one touched him either. Just her. And just here. Only with the pressure of her body against his. And he pretended that the awareness of that didn’t cut and sting.

He listened to each creaking tread as she followed him to the back bedroom, wishing he was leading her to bed. To lay her body over his as a living blanket, her scent mingling with his, her soft breasts and stomach cushions of warmth against his leanness. To wrap his arms around her and feel her sleep.

“I don’t think I can do this.” The words rushed out like vomit. He ignored them and pulled the blinds closed, shutting out the strange red night of the town. He started the slow tick of the metronome, set at the pace of his heartbeat, the rhythm of their time.

She dropped to her knees on the sports mat, the only furniture in the room. 

Monday, 24 April 2017

eLUST 93

Elust 93 

Photo courtesy of Aurora Glory

Welcome to Elust 93

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. Want to be included in Elust #94 Start with the rules, come back May 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Erotic Fiction

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships


Erotic Non-Fiction


Body Talk and Sexual Health


The Editor-in-Chief of Elust and better known to the rest of the world as Mollyxxx



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