Saturday, 28 April 2018

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 InspiredAwaiting Artwork, Naked ConfidenceStuffed, 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! 

Thursday, 26 April 2018


This isn't kinky or wicked. 


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 
                   WickedWednesday       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. 

Tuesday, 24 April 2018

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. 

Sunday, 22 April 2018

Elust, 105

Elust 105 Header Mrs Fever
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. 

Want to be included in Elust #106 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


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.
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

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


A landmark event for MPB - Public Play


-07.04.18_13:49-     Elust

Friday, 20 April 2018

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.

Thursday, 19 April 2018

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.

Sunday, 15 April 2018

SInful Sunday...Night Out

Sinful Sunday
A rare moment. 

A hotel room. A few hours of utter quiet. Clutter-free. 
Just us, some rope and a pristine white bed to be mussed. 
Oh.. and a party where we were asked to come dressed as ourselves... the parts we don't show to the casual observer. 

I did wear more than this. I wore electric blue rope and for the first time in public, I wore my collar. 

Probably more on that later... but for now, just the image. 

Then click on the kiss to find out who else has been being sinful this week...

Wednesday, 11 April 2018


I'm travelling this week. Travelling rather than on holiday.

For various reasons, we chose to home educate our children and that gives opportunities, like this lunchtime, having just eaten lunch surrounded by the beautiful naturalistically inspired Gaudi inspired landscape. I had decided the next stop was the Picasso Museum. My children thought it should be back to the youth hostel for an hour or two on their tablet computers, then to the beach.

We're three years into home education, so there was no real contest. Listening to two of my autistic kids explaining Picasso and Gaudi's work as though it was obvious what was going on was fantastic. However, I deviate...

Eldest child had put forward this was a holiday, hence the beach. I say this is a field trip. A trip...therefore a chance to travel.

We see a trip to the airport too often as being about the destination.

Travel is about the journey. Seeing and experiencing every step of the way and growing while you do.

Gaudi's work makes more sense if you see the process, from idea through drawing to complete object. Picasso's later art... the stuff we associate most with him, with irrational, child like images, makes sense when you see his earlier work and associate it with the changes in technology that were happening at the same time. Unlike great master's of the past, if you wanted a representative likeness in the 20th Century, you could just use a camera. Picasso said he painted what he thought, not what he saw. The movement in the painting especially made sense if your saw his sculptures, which gave different impressions when viewed from different angles.

Listening to my children speak about this art has changed how I will listen to them in the future.

Too often we rush past the pleasure of the journey for the perceived destination. Work, work, work... then a holiday lying still, then work some more. Exploring the beginning of potential relationships isn't about enjoying where we are, it's about wanting to be somewhere else... coupled up and potentially married...or at least committed. And then what?

"You have reached your destination." Time to sit still, like knackered holiday makers on the beach, then start moving again.

When life is a series of destinations, you miss the anticipation and planning, the unexpected sights and sounds of the journey and arrive as a completed action, not as part of a bigger whole.

I am travelling. I don't know my destination, but I am all about the journey. I don't want to miss a second of the learning and seeing and doing I am experiencing as part of that trip with my husband. equally, I have realised I missed out on parts of the journey I should have been savouring, back when I was younger and single, because there is no going back, no do-overs now I am committed with metal, children, a mortgage and a well invested heart.


Saturday, 7 April 2018

Alone at last

We had family come to stay for Easter. Which was lovely, but meant the Easter Rope Bunny couldn't come out to play until Monday evening. 

Sinful Sunday

Tuesday, 3 April 2018

TMI things about me

TMI Tuesday... enjoyed reading Cammies on the Floor's version, so I thought I would have a go.


1. Would you rather be the smartest or hottest man/woman in the room?

I've always been a bit of a blue stocking... which whilst not a bad thing, is pressure. People tend to assume I'm smart which sets me up for a fall. But I've never been the hottest person in the I'd love to try that...

2. Do you get aroused by hearing the sexual moans and noises of others having sex, e.g., neighbors, people next door in hotel room?

As a teenager I was part of an organisation which meant we had trips away from home. I remember listening to my friends having sex- one pair would spur on another and those of us alone would be left trying to jill or jack off in a too tight sleeping the morning light we would carry on as though nothing had happened. To this day, listening to real people having sex, being around them, is a big turn on.

3. What are some small things that make your day better?

Touch. Broadly speaking, I flash between being a sensory seeker and touch adverse. Part of my Autism diagnosis. If I think of good moments this week though, they are all about touch- having my hair washed at the hairdressers, a surprise hug from a friend (I'm not a casual hugger!), a hand on the back of my neck whilst I was on a difficult phone call.

4. It’s the night before Christmas and you hear footsteps on the roof — what do you do?

I still believe in Father Christmas. If my bedroom is not tidy on Christmas Eve I am in a panic. I think I would lie very still and pretend to be asleep and hope he would come, because I hate having to be someone with grown-up expectations and responsibilities all the time.

5. What does your ideal Saturday morning look like?

I don't know, because I would have slept through it... I have a better idea of how it would sound. Silent. Might be accompanied by the gentle wafting scent of someone baking me fresh pain au chocolate. A daft romance and time for a fantasy led wank.

6. What does your ideal Saturday night look like?

While Saturday morning is all about me... Saturday night would be about others. I'd love to be comfortable being more "me" in public... My partner and me alone would be fine. With others... that would be good too. He loves rope and I love pleasing him, so being tied in a quiet calm room, just me and him would be a lovely relaxing evening.

Bonus: What is the craziest, most outrageous thing you want to achieve?

I want to be seen as a professional in my "normal life" occupation, which is specialist and niche, but because I am also a client in that field I am usually looked down upon. So this might not seem to be that outrageous, but it would feel really empowering to be seen as an equal when I sit in the meetings I have to attend. That world and this one are diametrically opposing. More outrageously, I want to be able to wear this part of me on the outside more often.

Monday, 2 April 2018


I love a good action movie. Pierce or Tommy Lee or Chris (take your pick, Hemsworth, Evans or Pratt) saving the known universe from any number of world changing events. Milla and Kate fighting evil.

External evil versus self-preservation  is taught and understood in fairy tales and action movies alike, but self sacrifice is saved for the purest-hearted and is only available when saving others.

But what if you don't want saving? Who defines evil?

A few weeks ago, I wrote that I didn't really dream of a job when I was growing up. That is true. but I did think about several service roles, including ones which would involve the sacrifice of a sex life for celibacy. Sacrificing self to become an acolyte.

I love the mythical world where these choices are stark and clear.

I'm still into self-sacrifice.

So to this week's Wicked Wednesday prompt.


1 : a momentous event ranging from extreme misfortune to utter overthrow or ruin
2 : utter failure : fiasco the party was a catastrophe
3 a : a violent and sudden change in a feature of the earth
   b : a violent usually destructive natural event
4 : the final event of the dramatic action especially of a tragedy

Perhaps I've ended up more Cataclysm, than Catastrophe, but they have crossing definitions...

Lost in the seductive glow of my e-reader, the sudden burst of living room light burns my eyes.

“Upstairs. Now,” barks my man.

The flippant answer doesn’t make it to my mouth, retreats from this harsh, naked animal that is sometimes my husband. Unable to react as quickly as a switch, I mutter and take my time closing my book and darkening the lights as I climb the stairs behind him. With every action, the part of me that operates day to day is also shutting down and rising is the slut that answers to this part of him.

The slut and the wife battle as they pass. I don’t deserve anger for staying up and reading my book says the part of me that wonders if the children have uniform ready for school in the morning.  That isn’t what this is and you know it says the slut.

He closes the bedroom door with a gentle snick and slides the bolt home. Without words we start to methodically shed my clothes.

The battle is still unresolved as he pushes me down, knees hitting the waiting pillow. Stays that way as I open my mouth. As his fingers position my head. His musky cock, thick and dry, drags against my tongue and probes the roof of my mouth. Dabs the soft walls. Forces my focus to that small knot of action. Breath and gag and swallow.

Seconds left of the wife’s fight for control, trying to swallow and suck and lave, and then surrender. Trails of spit push from the corners of my mouth and hang from my jaw. Hair trapped by his large palms, glasses askew and eyes watering. Face fucked.

The slut takes it. Welcomes it.

The wife waits for waves of bitter, salty absolution that don’t come.

Moved from the floor to the bed, my blurred body is manhandled and draped over a stack of pillows. The wife doesn’t want this. Wants him to come in her mouth and let her sleep.

She hates the slither of rope. Wants to snarl at the matter of fact way he moves and shapes limbs from positions that are almost tolerable to one precariously unbalanced. Pulled apart, trussed like a joint being prepared for the oven. Ankles splayed from knees. No privacy in arousal, running as viscous streams, cooling tears of humiliation and want in equal measure.

The somnolent night is undisturbed. He doesn’t speak, preferring to listen to lips raw and swollen that scream truth than the lying mouth that would deny him even now. The useless, silent mouth, aching and empty and hungry.

Paralysed by the civil war, my arms lie loose against the black sheet, held motionless by something unfathomable that might be shame, might be pride. A heavy leather juggling ball is placed in the cradle of my left palm, weighted with significance. I curl my fingers to cage it but touch it as little as possible. The wife would throw it away. The slut squeeze it close. I accept it.

The first slap blooms from sound to sting. The second. I paddle into the white noise echoing through my nervous system as if dipping my toes into the lapping waves of an ocean. Let it wash away the need to count. To measure. To control. Waves taking my feet from beneath me. Tossing me with changes of rhythm and power. I want to sink and he pulls me back.  Spreads me open with controlling fingers, abraded skin tender. Stinging.

This has never been about what I want and always about what I need.

I need to be used.

Hips snap, plunging forwards with a wet slap into open, wet cunt, sensationless within the song of nerves clamouring for attention. Cheek pressed into cotton sheets is roughly scraped with every lunge despite the fingers yanking at my hair holding me bound to him. Arse in the air, hips improbably spread, the slide of knees halted only by screaming muscles, he pounds punishment into my flesh until I hear him. Until I listen.

Here I am. Unified and calm and dazed by storm, the small weighted ball my anchor.

Pulling back, the balm of cool air lasts seconds. Sharp cracks of palm shock my ears before the burn heats new fresh skin.

No hesitation. Four fingers in my quiescent passage, slick with welcome, he thrusts home in the same rhythm as he fucked and slapped. Relentless. Time passes unmarked. A twist, knuckles squeezing flesh against bone and his hand is fully seated. Buried. Watch strap grazing my lips and aching pressure on my cervix.

Stillness: the only disturbance his rasping breaths grating my ears.

My body is screaming but my brain is silent.

Everything fades to the squish of the lube. The rush of sickly sweet cherry. The slickness that somehow doesn’t disguise the callouses on his thumb as it demands entry.

My fingers don’t twitch as he pushes inside. The ball doesn’t move as he stretches me open. Thumb. Finger. Two thrust deep and twisting.

The gaping hole he has reduced me to. Waiting to be filled.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Breathing is the only control left. That, and the ball heavy in my palm.

His fingers flex deep inside, neither pain nor pleasure, just possession.

With a sharp, centering slice, I split under his relentless pressure and feel every ridge and valley as he inches forwards. The bouncing pattern of nudge and retreat, until his hand, slippery and cherry-scented, combs tear wet hair from my face and gathers it again in haphazardly cruel grip at the nape of my neck. Pulls. Distracts me for a fraction of a second and holds me there on the precipice.

Fucks me for his pleasure.

Stuffed with his hand.

Filled with his cock. 

Again and again and again. Breath huffing from slack mouths with every rutting drive.

The twist and drag and weight of his hand as he rakes his dick over his fingers, my body his glove as he wanks in my arse.

Nothing but him in my body and my mind.

Stutters to crescendo. A whisper of sound ground through clenched teeth. Heat. Maybe. If I were sure in the physical sensations. If I wasn’t forced apart by the furious pulse of flesh trapped between and around. Brought together by his ownership.

His sweat soaked body draped over mine. The wet gush as hand slides loose. Deflating cock slipping free. World re-framed. 

I am never more at peace than I am in that moment.