Lucy's Bedroom

Under His Thumb - Part 3

She wrapped her arms tightly around her body, hugging herself for warmth against the icy wind that swept across the estate. Her thin dress moulded itself to her curves as she trotted beside him, trying to keep up with his purposeful strides. They walked across the cracked and potholed car park, past the burnt out hulks of torched cars and into the dim and filthy lobby of the tower block. In the piss-stinking lift he glanced across sharply at her and she hurriedly arranged herself into his preferred position, hands clasped behind her back, head bowed, eyes lowered to the ground. He ran his fingertip down her cheek and under her chin, smiling to himself.

He made her walk ahead of him into the flat. It smelled of smoke and stale lager, its ragged curtains shut against the watery sunshine, the sitting room lit only by the wide television screen which showed the flickering image of a vacant-eyed, baby faced Californian blonde, smouldering amateurishly at the camera as she took the latest in a long line of cocks in her cum-drenched arse.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she looked nervously around the room, taking in the sullen, predatory faces of the men. Some were pinched and angular, lean and sly products of generations of poverty. Others had the smooth, cultivated musculature that spoke of prison gyms. One was gross and unshaven, his blurry eyes a testament to the half-empty vodka bottle at his feet. Another scratched his armpit lazily, releasing waves of his sour, unwashed aroma.

A narrow-eyed, shaven headed man leapt to his feet and strode across to her, standing too close and breathing into her face. She lowered her eyes submissively and he laughed a sharp bark then reached down and hauled the hem of her dress up and over her head, tossing it carelessly aside. She gasped and instinctively her hands flew to cover her breasts, squashing them against her body as she looked over her shoulder. She saw him settle onto the dirty, faded sofa, leaning back and watching her with detached curiosity.

At the ‘click’ of metal her head snapped back, eyes front, staring horrified at the glinting flick-knife the stranger held close to her face. Still cupping her breasts, she trembled as he lowered the point, pressing it into her belly, trailing it across her hip bone and across the mound of her pussy. With an evil grin he slid it inside her knickers, its tip circling her straining clit. A sudden snap of his wrist and he sliced through the fabric of her knickers and they floated away. Lifting the blade he held it up for her to see, dripping with her juices.

He snatched at her hair, tugging her down onto her knees, the knife held gently pressing her throat. With a sigh of resignation she opened her mouth while he unzipped his cock, and as he forced it roughly into her mouth she assumed the position, hands clasped behind her back again, shoulders back and tits thrust out, kneeling back on her heels with her thighs parted wide. Her cheeks bulged as he rubbed the head of his cock against their insides, grunting as her tongue swirled around the head of his cock, lapping and licking him urgently. Holding her cheeks between his hands he thrust his cock in deeper, watching her gag and splutter as he drilled down into her throat until his balls rested on her chin and she gazed up at him with wide, watery eyes. Ruthlessly he fucked her throat, groaning as its muscles clenched his cock in tight spasms as she struggled, pulling his cock out and spurting hot spunk across her lips and chin and onto her outstretched tongue.

Immediately the next man replaced him, cupping her chin with one hand, the other at the back of her head, bending her back as he leant in over her body, fucking down into her throat before spraying her with cum that shot into her nostrils and dripped from her chin. Another took his place, sliding his balls over her trembling lips and moaning as she sucked them, rolling them round her hot mouth with her tongue. When his balls were tight and his cock twitching he drove it into her throat, jerking her head on and off his shaft with sharp yanks of her hair. After only a few strokes he was showering her upturned face with his spunk, splattering it into her eyes and gumming her eyelashes together.

Meanwhile, on the landing outside the flat, bored with her ordeal he stood at the window smoking and watching the sun set over the wasteland below. He could hear the grunts and groans of the men mingled with the screams of the porn starlet on the screen riding another monstrous cock for her bus fare. Sometimes one of the men left and they exchanged curt nods. Occasionally another man arrived, furtive and unfriendly. As darkness fell he tossed his last cigarette butt away and pushed the door open again. Sated, the men were slumped before the screen again. The porn starlet was tied to some sort of home made rack which rattled as she struggled and screamed. On the floor, lit by the blue light of the screen, she sprawled, her face a sticky mask of cold spunk, her breasts and belly streaked with cum. A crumpled cigarette butt had been flicked carelessly into her hair which stuck to her face and neck in matted strands. And between her thighs the flickering light reflected off the now empty vodka bottle that protruded from her swollen pussy.

A fresh bottle was being passed round the room. Sitting, he took it and poured a slug into an empty mug, watching as the girl on the screen wept and begged to be allowed to go home, trembling at the sight of the twelve inch dildo being oiled for her pleasure.

Under His Thumb - Part 2

He led her up the steps to the door, watching her slyly from the corner of his eye as he pulled the bell, her hair teased and wild tumbling over her shoulders, hiding her face as she gazed meekly down at her leather-booted feet. As the door swung open he slipped her coat off her shoulders, letting it drop to her feet, leaving her standing for a brief moment naked in the doorway, brightly lit and on display.

Gripping her arm, he propelled her abruptly down the hall and through the double doors into the dimly-lit drawing room, its walls draped with darkly glittering exotic fabrics, the air heavy with the sweet scent of candles. The Mistress of the house sat, coolly cross-legged in an ancient leather chair, one eyebrow arched in wry amusement, a riding crop balanced in both hands, lightly tapping her open palm.

He shoved her in the small of her back and she stumbled to her hands and knees at Mistress’ feet. Mistress stood and walked slowly round her, appraising her, flicking her hair back with the tip of the crop, brushing it across her swaying breasts, sliding it between her rounded buttocks.

“I like her better than your last one.  What happened to her?”

“She disobeyed me.  I had to deal with her.”

Laughing, Mistress cracked the crop across her arse.  She bit her lip, swallowing her squeal into an abject whimper.

“This one’s much more obedient.  Shall we test how obedient?”

Mistress dragged a straight-backed wooden chair into the centre of the room. He hauled her to her feet and bent her over it, palms on the seat, thighs parted. She winced as she felt the cold tip of a steel dildo press between her warm pussy lips, sighing as its smooth hardness slid inside her. They turned her, sitting her in the chair, driving the dildo deeper into her cunt. He positioned her carefully, hands behind her back clasping the back of the chair, ankles hooked over the side rails.

Meanwhile Mistress placed a black metal box, the size of a radio, on a table beside the chair. She watched in anxious anticipation as Mistress clipped wires to the terminals of this…battery? The first of these wires fixed into the end of the dildo. Next Mistress knelt at her feet, gently kissing and sucking at her nipples until they were throbbing and wet. Then slowly Mistress let the serrated edge of the crocodile clips close on them, eyes glittering as she watched her gasp and pant, tits heaving as she rode the pain.

As she writhed, eyes screwed shut, Mistress deftly slid two fingers on either side of her clit, pulling the folds of flesh taut and snapping the final clip shut. Eyes wide with shock, she screamed. From where he stood behind her he clamped his hand over her trembling lips, tipping her head back and leaning over to look down into her tear-filled eyes.

“You’re not going to be wilful, are you?”

With a sob she shook her head.

“It’s not as though I’m asking much of you.  All you have to do is sit in the position you’ve been put in and wait.”

As he spoke, Mistress fixed one more wire to the battery – this one leading to an alarm clock, which she set.

He led Mistress to the couch, lazily letting her strip him and lap at his balls. Watching them, she waited, her knuckles white as she gripped the chair, eyes darting from the ticking clock to the battery to Mistress gagging on his cock. She trembled uncontrollably, the clip pinching her clit rattling against the steel dildo, sweat trickling down her brow, her damp fringe plastered in tendrils to her face. The sound of the ticking clock filled the room, drowning out Mistress’ screams as he brutally thrust his cock into her arse.

As the second hand began its final sweep around the clock face, silent tears trickled down her cheeks and she held her breath.

Under His Thumb - Part 1

He watched her walking down the street towards him, tall on her five inch heels, their polished sharpness ringing against the pavement. The corners of his mouth twitched into a thin smile as he saw how well she had followed his instructions. The tight black skirt strained across her thighs as she walked, her steps constrained by its snugness, its hem rustling as it brushed her stockinged knees. Its matching jacket cinched her waist, flaring over her hips, the deep V of its neckline revealing the curve of her breasts as they juddered with each step she took. Her dark, glossy hair was pulled back, fastened in the nape of her neck and her face was pale against the blood red gloss of her lipstick and dark lashes. Over her shoulder she carried the bag he knew contained a riding crop, a pair of handcuffs and a nine inch dildo. Nothing else, no money, no phone, no ID. One final touch, a last-minute inspiration, tied in a bow around her neck she wore a red silk choker – so popular with the ladies of France who watched with horror and excitement as their fellow aristocrats were sent to the guillotine. They wore the red ribbon in remembrance - a la victime.

In the restaurant she sat with eyes lowered, hands folded in her lap, legs demurely crossed at the ankles while he ordered for her. He watched her sip the heavy wine he chose and pick nervously at her food.

“Are you wearing any knickers”, he hissed.

She blinked up, startled, and shook her head. 

“Go into the toilets. Not the ladies’ toilets, go into the gents’. In the end cubicle, lift your skirt up above your hips and spread your ankles wide. Bend forwards from the waist with your hands flat on the tiles. And wait.”

He turned his attention to his plate, eating quickly and with concentration as she stood uneasily and began to weave her way between the crowded tables. She hovered for a second at the door of the gents’, her face flushed, looking anxiously up and down the corridor before opening the door a crack and peering inside. To her relief the room was empty and she hurried into the end cubicle, letting the door swing shut behind her but not bolting it. She wriggled her hips as she tugged her skirt up over them, conscious as she spread her legs of how wet and open her pussy already was. She leaned against the tiles, rubbing her forehead against their cold smoothness and trembling as she waited.

As the main door clattered open she jumped and bit her lip, listening in horror to the plummy, well-fed businessmen talking about money as they took a piss. They left in a flurry of self-congratulation and she relaxed for a moment, but too soon as the door creaked open again. Slow footsteps made their way across the tiles, each cubicle door flung back on its hinges with a crash. She shut her eyes tight, shuddering with anticipation, and squealed as the door to her cubicle was slammed wide open and the walls shook.

She felt him standing close behind her, his warm breath on her neck, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips. As he unzipped his cock it flopped heavily against the crack of her arse and she whimpered. Gripping her buttocks, he parted her sticky pussy lips with his thumbs and with a grunt began to force the head of his cock into her. She gasped, her eyes wide with surprise and the realisation that something was unfamiliar. For the first time she looked back over her shoulder and saw the young waiter who had served them, his face screwed up in self-absorption, his huge cock barely half-way inside her cunt and already stretching her achingly wide.

She rolled her hips as she pushed back, desperately trying to screw him in deeper, grinding her dripping cunt against his monstrous cock, sweat breaking out on her forehead and she worked it in. With a soft groan he pulled it out until only its tip nestled in her warm flesh. She braced herself, squealing as he slammed it back in, his belly slamming against her arse as he started to fuck her furiously fast, mumbling under his breath, “Puttana! Agitarssi il suo culo!”

Gripping the back of her neck with one hand he shoved her face against the wall as he slapped her arse sharply with the other in time with the thrusts of his cock. Tears prickled her eyes as her shame at letting a stranger fuck her mingled with her excitement at his thick hot cock nailing her sloppy, hungry cunt. With a groan he tensed and she felt his cock start to twitch as it flooded her pussy with cum. He pulled out, jerking his cock and spraying the last spurts onto her swollen pussy lips. Shaking, she slid a finger into her pussy and drew it out, glistening with her juices mingled with his spunk. She sighed, sucking her finger clean as she heard the door swing shut.

Back at the table she crossed her legs, feeling the wetness of the inside of her thighs as they brushed together. Not looking at her, he motioned to the waiter.

“Era buona?”

She glanced up shyly from beneath her lashes at the waiter who leered down at her.

“Era molto buona.  Lei ha il suo pozzo addestrato.”

She watched him count out the bill and a tip and felt ashamed when she realised the tip was what he thought she was worth.

"Whore.  Wiggle your arse."  "Was she good?"  "She was very good.  You have her well trained."

Down on the Farm

I have been blissfully looked after today, with cups of tea in bed, bacon and eggs for breakfast and a long soak in the hot tub (from where you have a view of the vegetable plot and the occasional company of an inquisitive chicken).

Dressed in an oversized, borrowed bathrobe and Wellingtons I went to look for D, finding him piling up bales of straw in a shed.

“Ah, here comes Lady Chatterley.”

“Ooh, are you all glowing and sweaty from your agricultural exertions?”

“Come here bonny lass, let me sacrifice thee to my dark gods!”   

Giggling, I let him lift me up until I was sitting on a bale of straw, the bathrobe open and slipping off my shoulders as I leaned back, taking my weight on my elbows. Pulling up another bale, he sat down, face buried between my thighs and began to lick and slurp greedily at my pussy until I was squirming and whimpering on the brink of cumming.

As I arched my back he switched to kissing the insides of my thighs, leaving my clit throbbing in the sudden chill, biting gently at my flesh, leaving little red marks. As my breathing deepened and juice trickled from my pussy he slowly worked his way up again, flicking his tongue suddenly against the underside of my clit, making me squeal and tremble.

I lay on my back, the straw prickling against my shoulders, and gazed at the dusty rafters as D slowly, deliberately, licked me to the edge of orgasm again then stopped, kissing my belly and pressing his nose against my full bladder until my trembling subsided. Then he started again.

My mouth grew dry and beads of sweat trickled down my neck. I closed my eyes, smelling the sweet, musty straw and the earthy scent of cows in the field outside and the salty pungency of my cunt. My clit ached, the warm crackle of nerve endings in my pussy concentrated and sharpened to a single, insistent, stabbing need. D dug his fingertips into my thighs, pulling me closer and I grabbed fistfuls of his hair, holding him tight.

With a sharp scream I began to cum, finished almost as soon as I started, a painful convulsion followed by a swollen, numbing tingling throb in my clit. My cry echoed round the shed and as it died away we listened to startled geese honking and flapping away. A cow poked its head over the gate and gazed at us. We raised our heads and looked, wide-eyed at each other, silent for a second before dissolving into giggles.

Glastonbury

I’m back and I brought you a souvenir of Glastonbury. Look, it’s mud! You can never have too much in my experience (or at least my experience over the last few days). Anyway, here are some random things I remember, with a slight over-emphasis on shagging, because that’s why you bought a ticket for my blog…

Thursday

Today Lucy Learned: Tents have a right and a wrong side. When you put them up inside out you can get out of the tent but not into it. This can be a cause of arguments.

The other problem with tents is that they’re not soundproof. Clever D has a solution. He has brought two of my long silk scarves with him. He rolls one up into a ball then wraps it in the other with two knots to keep it from unravelling. With a grin he rolls on top of me, wrapping the ends of the scarves around his fists and snapping it taut. Then he lowers it slowly to my lips, brushing them as he whispers’ “Open wide.” My lips are trembling as I part them and I wriggle beneath him, spreading my legs and feeling his cock digging into my thigh. He presses the gag into my mouth, stuffing the soft silk in with his fingertips. It feels so strange – soft and airy but filling my mouth almost to the point of gagging. I sigh then panic as the silk seems sucked into my throat and D watches me solemnly, not moving the gag, as I struggle to control my breathing until it’s coming deep and slow from my diaphragm and my breasts are wobbling gently with each breath.

Quickly he wraps the trailing ends of the scarves twice around my head, knotting them securely at the back. He rubs his thumb across my mouth, feeling the silk rising and falling with my breath, pulling my lower lip down gently, kissing it and rubbing the tip of his tongue across my teeth. Outside, the distorted thud of the dance tents floats across, occasional drunken voices and laughter as stragglers make their way back to their tents. Inside, I can hear my blood pounding in my ears, my breath rasping softly as he curls his fingers through mine, pinning my arms above my head, forcing the head of his cock into my pussy. It gives only a second’s resistance then he slides inside suddenly, buried to the hilt in a rush of slippery flesh. I blush, a little ashamed to be made so wet and open by just a gag. D laughs and growls in my ear, “You dirty slag”, before fucking me with slow hard stabs of his cock.

We appear to have camped next to some people with didgeridoos. 

Friday

Today Lucy Saw: Amy Winehouse, Super Furry Animals, Arcade Fire, Bjork

Today Lucy Learned: When you’re packing for a festival it is important to bring your pink glittery wings and flowery hat. But not as important as remembering to pack your reading glasses.

Today I booked a session in the Gong Bath - largely to annoy D who gets very angry about ‘alternative’ therapy – and the Gong Bath was the stupidest thing I could find. You lie on a bench, blindfolded, while a woman walks round you playing two gongs. And, err…that’s it. Apparently, it’s ‘the most powerful form of holistic resonance known to man’. That may be so, but it’s not powerful enough to drown out the noise of D outside saying, “But what does it have the power to do? What do you mean, holistic? Powerful compared to what – sonic booms, amplified music, the deep resonant boom of the mating cry of the kakapo? What? Tell me woman!

Um, what else happened today? We got wet, D went to see Paul Weller (something I refuse ever to do again and consider D a ‘sad dad’ in the making for doing), we ate the worst chickpea and lentil burgers in the history of Europe and we failed to build a campfire because of drizzle.

No sex was indulged in following an over-indulgence in supermarket-brand vodka.

Saturday

Today Lucy Saw: Guillemots, Pigeon Detectives, Bat for Lashes, The Kooks, The Killers

Today Lucy Learned: Iconic moments can be disappointing. I can’t be the only one who has always wanted to leap into a taxi and yell, “Follow that cab!” Similarly, D has always wanted to thrust his way through a crowd and cry, “Let me through, I’m a doctor!” He finally gets his chance to do this and kneels over the frothing and fitting girl lying on the ground only to be thrust aside by a woman who cries, “Let me through, I’ve got a certificate in first aid!” I briefly consider shoving her over and shouting, “Let me through, my neighbour’s a physiotherapist!” but I decide D’s big enough to fight his own battles. Eventually the girl’s airways are checked, she is placed in the recovery position and her friend is persuaded to stop crying and explain what medical condition she has (epilepsy – so coming to a festival filled with flashing lights seems like an excellent idea). She comes round, is given her medication and we walk her up to the welfare station. D is briefly pressed into service explaining to people that they really don’t need to go to casualty with chickenpox and really do need to go when shattered bone is sticking through their skin.

In the ‘what else’ category today, we saw Mark Steel, ate baked potatoes cooked in our very own campfire (hooray – and a special mention to Gwen, because it’s not everyone who’d think of packing potatoes for a festival).

Sunday

Today Lucy Saw: The Holloways, Manic Street Preachers, Kaiser Chiefs, The Chemical Brothers

Today Lucy Learned: It is possible to step right out of your Wellingtons and right into ankle-deep mud. This is only really funny when it happens to someone else.

D and I have a complicated argument today which begins as a mild disagreement about toothpaste and spirals uncontrollably into an argument about everything that’s ever happened to us either separately or together, with special emphasis on why we always have to have skimmed milk. D resolves matters after a fashion by stealing my clothes. I resolve matters finally by phoning his mum who tells him to give them back.

As we’re both congenitally unable to say the word sorry, we signal our contrition in the following ways: D buys me an amber necklace (and I manage to whisk him away from the stall just in time to stop the girl explaining to him that it has healing qualities…); I let him tie my wrists together behind my knees with my legs lifted, feet brushing the roof of the tent. He drips the holistic ylang-ylang massage oil I got suckered into buying off the necklace lady onto my pussy, watching it trickle down the crack of my arse, rubbing it in gently with his fingers before unzipping his cock and sliding it smoothly into my arse and rocking me slowly back and forth while the rain drums on the tent.

Today’s ‘what else’ includes Mark Thomas, Tony Benn, some very nice vegetable curry and more fucking mud.

I’m at D’s parents’ now and I plan to sleep for a month.

Uneroticism

We’re going to Glastonbury. I’ve practised putting our tent up (admittedly only in my bedroom), we’ve stocked up on sun cream, wet wipes and paracetamol and I’ve stapled our tickets to D’s t-shirt. I lie on the bed in a state of excitement wearing a bikini, Wellingtons and a woolly hat and inspecting the site map. D is kissing my tummy. I put the map down.

“Can I just point out that I’m wearing a bikini, Wellingtons and a woolly hat?  How can this possibly be erotic?”

D looks confused, points to my tummy and says, “Skin” then starts licking it enthusiastically while I giggle. 

I never cease to marvel at D’s resilience in the face of unerotic situations. I can be streaming snot and coughing germs all over him but he struggles manfully on. The fact that I’m bleaching my moustache and shaving my armpits will not deter him from copping a feel. Even when I had pink-eye and impacted wisdom teeth at the same time and I looked like a laboratory rabbit he wrestled me to the floor, unbuttoning things furiously.

I try to think of a situation that will put him off.

“What if it rains all week and I spend the whole festival covered in mud?” He buries his face against my tummy and groans. “What if I come down with a terrible rash all over my skin?” He blows a raspberry against my tummy then looks up grinning and says, “I prescribe calamine lotion rubbed in all over. Very slowly and carefully. Twice.” “What if I contract a rare bloating disease and puff up all over?” He reaches up and squeezes my tits, making parping noises.

I try to wrestle him off, accidentally kneeing him rather hard as he tumbles off the bed. He lies on the floor with his face screwed up. “OK, that worked, I’m pretty sure it’s gone down now.”

(No blogging during Glastonbury but tune in next week for the exciting conclusion of Lucy’s adventures. Did D recover his erection? Did Lucy spend all week covered in mud? Just what are the erotic possibilities of Wellingtons? All this and more on your favourite sexblog.)

Not Quite Montmartre

My recent skint-ness has led me to the job ads in the local paper - which is how I ended up naked in front of a room full of strangers. Settle down, it’s not what you think, I wasn’t lap dancing or shooting a porno or any of the other images that just popped into your head (or have now that I’ve mentioned them). No, I’ve been modelling for a life drawing class at the local town hall. The money’s not great but as soon as I saw the ad I knew it was something I wanted to tick off my list.

I had a moment of absurd shyness just before I went in, peering round the door in my bath robe at the mostly middle-aged men and women pinning paper to their easels and lining up their charcoals. But the funny thing is, I felt much more conspicuous in my robe than when I’d taken it off. Once I was naked it all became briskly business-like as they ordered me about into position and tutted when I wobbled.

Somehow I’d hoped for a Montmartre studio, a sofa to drape myself on as a handsome but impecunious artist immortalises me for posterity before giving me a good rogering that leaves me with a glow in my cheeks. Eventually of course I would die of tuberculosis, but coughing prettily into a lace hankie like Greta Garbo in Camille. Instead I got cold and stiff and bored. Every few minutes they would stop so I could relax and stretch my tingling arms and legs. From time to time they’d bully me into a different position. One man had me sit on the edge of the platform, clasping one raised knee, the other leg dangling. As I posed he wordlessly indicated with one hand that I should shift my dangling leg a little to the side. As I parted my thighs slightly I raised one eyebrow at him and he blushed, ducking down behind his easel, the old dog!

As my boredom grew I gave a little more thought to the Montmartre studio, pictured myself letting my Chinese silk robe slither to the floor, shivering in the chill of the tall attic windows, my flesh pink where it faced the single oil heater. I thought about letting my artist pose me, lifting and positioning my limbs, urging me to arch my back and let my hair stream over the edge of the sofa to the floor. Inevitably, my clit began to tingle and my pussy grew damp. I stared at the posters on the walls and tried to think about local recycling schemes but it was too late. Already my mind had me sprawled and sighing as my artist brushed my naked skin with a wide, soft sable brush, dipping it into my dripping pussy and drawing it out wet and stiff, its bristles pointed as it flicks across the tip of my clit, maddeningly until I’m moaning and stroking my breasts, shuddering as I…and relax. We’ve finished.

Back in my robe I politely do the rounds to see everyone’s drawings of me, searching hard for something positive to say about a couple of them. I leave ‘thighs parted’ man until last. His drawing is wonderful and subtle and it does indeed show the folds of my pussy looking like a delicate flower. “It’s beautiful!” I say in amazement, gazing at the drawing. He looks me in the face and smiles, “Yes, it’s very beautiful.” And now it’s my turn to blush.

Two Posts About My Boyfriend - 2

D was my friend Lynda’s one night stand. The first I knew about this was as they clattered drunkenly up the stairs, whispering, “Shhhhh!” at the tops of their voices and giggling. With a sigh, and now wide awake, I rolled onto my back and lay in bed listening to Lynda’s squeaky bed and some fairly impressive squealing and grunting from her room.

The next morning there was a shock of black hair, stubble and poached-egg-eyes poking out from a duvet on the sofa. It snored gently. Lynda wasn’t sure of its name.

“Now the thing is darling, I’ve got a text from (ex boyfriend) and he wants to meet for lunch and give things another go. So when he wakes up, can you tell him?”

“I’m sorry, you want me to tell your one night stand that you had to go because you got a better offer?”

“I knew you’d understand, you’re so clever, see you later.”

As the door slammed, D opened one eye and peered blearily at me.  “Which one are you?”

“I’m Lucy.”

“And what are you doing next, Lucy?”

“I’m having a shower.”

“Good idea, I’ll watch.”

And he did. Sitting on a kitchen chair he’d dragged into the bathroom, smoking the first cigarette of the day, he watched me as I rather self-consciously showered and washed my hair and shaved my legs. With great ceremony, he wrapped a towel around me as I stepped out, his brisk rubbing gradually slowing, becoming more intimate as he pulled me to the floor.

His breath was stale with cigarette smoke, his stubble grazed my chin and his unwashed hair smelled sourly of the pub. But I felt so overwhelmed by the suddenness and intensity of his weight crushing me against the cold lino, his tongue fighting against mine, our teeth clashing in a bruising, fierce kiss, his cock digging hard into my belly, that I could think of nothing except opening my legs wide and letting him in. He fucked me hard and fast, sprawled on top of me, one hand cupping the back of my head, his face buried in the crook of my neck, hissing my name over and over under his breath. I stared at the ceiling, shocked that my eyes were hot with tears, grinding my belly against his and sobbing as I came. He propped himself up on his elbows, staring down at me, anxious as my lips trembled and I blinked away tears. Feeling flustered but wanting to show that I wasn’t, I rolled him onto his back, straddling his cock and he put his hands behind his head, grinning up at me as I rode him hard, rolling my hips and squeezing his cock tight, screwing it and grinding it, working it hard. As I leant forward with my hands on his chest, he reached up and cupped my tits, squeezing them as he arched his back, groaning as he came, making me giggle as I thought about listening to him do exactly the same with Lynda last night.

We spent the day sprawled on the sofa watching daytime TV and eating spaghetti hoops on toast. D painted my toenails, I cut his hair, Lynda came home. Startled to find him still there, Lynda smiled sweetly at him, grabbed my arm and dragged me into the hall.

“I thought you were telling him,” she hissed, loud enough to be heard all through the house.

From the sitting room D called, “It’s OK, I don’t mind being dumped, I’ve decided to marry Lucy.”

Lynda glared at me.  I smiled and shrugged helplessly.  After all, what’s a girl supposed to do?

Two Posts About My Boyfriend - 1

Funny old day today. It was my fist day back at university after being poorly but before I went I had to go to hospital for a blood test. As it’s the hospital where D works we agreed to meet for lunch. I arrived to find him very trembly and tearful, having just watched one of his patients die, frightened and in great pain. He didn’t want to talk or eat, instead he led me down into one of the hospital’s closed wards – a ghostly place of dark corridors and stone floors – where he lifted me up onto a window ledge, my legs wrapped round his waist, his arms crushing my body against his, and fucked me with slow, hard thrusts, his face buried in my hair, tears streaming down his cheeks. It felt so strange, as though I could have been anyone, just a warm body for him to lose himself in. We’ve played so many games where sex has been rough, been urgent, where I’ve been passive, been submissive, but it always felt like he loved me. This felt like nothing and I was really shaken by it. He’s always distressed when patients die – doctors never get used to it – but I suppose I’ve always seen him before at the end of his shift, never when it’s raw, when it’s just happened and he’s angry and helpless.

I coasted through the afternoon at university, my mind still in the cold, empty ward. At the end of a tutorial my tutor took me aside and asked me if I was really feeling well enough to be back. I just burst into tears and told the poor, startled man the whole story – then realised how inappropriate this was and started to apologise. To my surprise, he took my hand and told me that his wife was a doctor and she gets a bit lost too sometimes so he understood exactly what it feels like to be shut out by someone’s grief. He said I should just walk next to D until he was ready to carry on.

So that’s what I did.  I met him at the end of his shift and we got the bus home, holding hands in silence.

Boo Radley's House

You know the really torrential rain we’ve been having here in the UK? The rain that’s caused floods and power shortages and disrupted travel and business? Well that’s the rain I was caught in when I locked myself out of the house in a summer dress and no shoes. I was innocently weeding the path when the front door slammed shut behind me, there was a crack of thunder, the heavens opened and in seconds I was about as wet as a girl can be. In best soft-porn fashion, my dress plastered itself to my body, thoughtfully outlining nipples and knickers for any casual observers. I stood on the path, pointlessly wringing out my dripping hair and hopping from one foot to another, wondering what to do.

And that’s when Boo Radley saw me. Now, I have to explain about the house across the road. The curtains are always drawn shut and the front garden’s overgrown with huge sinister bushes. On dustbin day there are always at least six bin bags of – well we usually assume they’re cut-up bodies – and no one has ever seen who lives there. But he’s clearly been watching me because he beckons me over. I try to think of a reason why I might prefer to stay standing in the freezing rain with all my assets on show but fail to come up with anything convincing. So I tell myself that he’s probably harmless and, with a sudden vision of warm towels and hot tea, I beetle across the road and into his hall.

Everything in his hall is painted lime green. I mean everything – walls, stairs, ceiling, floorboards. I stand there, blinking stupidly and only gradually take him in. From a distance you would say he’s in his twenties – he has short, bleached blonde hair, a goth t-shirt, multi-pierced ears – he could be anyone you see in Camden Market. Except close up he’s clearly in his forties. We make small-talk about the rain as we move into his kitchen where only the cupboards and table are painted lime green. I’m encouraged by him putting the kettle on but there’s no sign of a towel being offered. As I sit at his kitchen table sipping tea from a chipped mug I simultaneously realise a number of things: he has an unsettlingly steady gaze and monotone voice; he’s sitting between me and the door; my pussy is just a little bit tingly and wet.

Now this last one isn’t because he’s in the least bit fanciable (ugh, goth’s so ‘80s). No, it’s the danger thing. I’m not really listening as he talks because I’m imagining bewildered relatives being interviewed on the local news while all the time I’m chained, naked in a cage in his cellar. Glancing up I notice that the kitchen light is a pendant lamp situated off-centre with a long lead that loops up over a hook so that it hangs over the table. The hook makes me splutter with laughter as I bury my face in my tea. He’s talking about how he’s seen me on my bicycle and I suddenly imagine one of the bedrooms is plastered with photos taken of me through its window, a camera with a long lens on a tripod, maybe night-vision goggles.

This is really very bad of me. He’s only being kind in his slightly disconcerting way. If I were a better person I’d ask him questions about himself and put him at his ease. Maybe we’d end up friends or I could show how grateful I am with a blowjob. NO! Stop it Lucy! This is supposed to be ‘if I were a better person’ not ‘because I’m an amoral little tart’.

Time slowly passes in awkwardness and half-nakedness. Eventually it’s time for D to be home and, peering out of the door I see his car is parked outside. After slightly clumsy thanks I go skipping across the road in the teeming rain and knock on D’s door.

“I’ve been in Boo Radley’s house!”
“Like THAT!?!” boggles D.

I look down at my see-through dress then back up at D with wide eyes.  “Yes, like this.  Why do you ask?”

“Get up those stairs right now young lady.  You’re going to tell me all about it.  Does he actually cut up bodies?”

“No, but he does have a cage in his basement and chains hanging from the ceiling in the kitchen and a room plastered with photos of me in compromising positions.”

“But he let you escape.  That was very careless of him.”

“Oh, it was a momentary lapse of concentration after the blowjob.”

“You used a blowjob to escape?  Good girl, I’m very proud of you.”