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.