Lucy's Bedroom

In Which Lucy Is Injured, Depressed and Shocked

My arms are slashed erratically and a drop of blood swells and trembles from one of the cuts before trickling down my wrist. The curtain pole has been half-ripped from the wall, the curtains spilling gracelessly to the floor as the light fitting sways back and forth, shooting expressionist shadows up the walls of the shard-strewn room. No, not the latest episode of Lucy’s Guide to Self-Harm for the Busy Girl, but the scene after forty minutes of trying to put my cat in her travelling box before taking her to the vet. The really annoying thing is that once we get to the vet’s she is as good as gold, batting her eyelashes at the nice Australian vet and rolling over to have her tummy tickled. She’s so much like me she makes me ashamed.

I made a twit of myself, excitedly engaging the vet in amusing anecdotes about the cuteness of my cat instead of just saying, “She has a lump.” He looked at me and my cat warily and I gradually concluded that the erotic possibilities of a vet’s surgery are zero (partly due to the large and graphic poster of rabbit parasites on the wall).

We have to do this all over again on Friday so she can have surgery and I can hand over all the money I earned posing for life-drawing classes in the town hall – money I was planning on spending in Paris in October. It’s not the only money I’ve got but I liked the aptness of spending money earned as an artist’s muse in the cafes of Montmartre.

I felt a bit down this afternoon, probably because I’m under-occupied at the moment and there’s only so much ‘1950s housewife’ stuff I can do without going crazy. So I went to bed with the cat and alternated between fingering my pussy in a desultory fashion and dozing fitfully, while she licked her bottom then slept with her nose tucked under her paw (because you can’t be too careful). I’m going to the doctor tomorrow to talk about my meds, which I’ve been taking in a slightly negligent fashion since I was twelve. To misquote Woody Allen: ‘I’m going to give them one more year, then I’m going to Lourdes’.

No sex to write about today, so instead here’s an update on my friend Lynda, who regular readers will recall is a famous slut. I’ll let her take up the story. “I met a gorgeous young man in St James’s Park, sitting on a bench eating his sandwiches. He was all suited and plush and very Foreign Office. I was being pursued by a rather menacing pelican at the time and he rescued me by chucking his crusts at it. So I sat down next to him and gave him a peck on the cheek to say thank you and he shared his last sandwich with me. Anyway, one thing led to another and we ended up having a knee-trembler behind one of the buildings up by the store yard – you know, across the road from Horse Guards Parade. Then he had to go back to work but he walked me as far as Admiralty Arch and he kept my knickers stuffed in his pocket. I think he said his name was Nick. He had a nice cock.”

I am speechless.

More Lesbian Vampire Nonsense

More Lesbain Vampire movie nonsense today. (Look, I’m getting sucked into the madness – I wrote Lesbain Vampire with capital letters as though it’s worthy of such dignity.) Anna and I have been talking about the fake blood we were promised and so asked to see what it’s like. It’s called Kensington Gore (which Londoners will recognise as a joke – Kensington Gore being the address of the Albert Hall). Anyway, we had a little trial run and took a few still pictures but I’m struggling to write anything sensible about it. And I know all you want to do is look at pictures so scroll down the side bar you perverts...

Fucktoy

So I woke up this morning with the sun streaming in the window, the bedclothes all kicked onto the floor and a post-it note stuck to my tummy. It read: HEY FUCKTOY, WAKE UP.

I could hear D banging around in the kitchen so I shuffled sleepily in to say good morning and, as it turned out, kneel on the floor to suck his cock then bend over the kitchen table to take it up the arse.

It’s at this point that I made a small tactical error. You see I’m not so keen on doing anal without a condom, partly because of health issues blah, blah, blah but mainly because getting spunk up my arse stings and makes it feel cramped and bloated. But D’s a nasty boy who gets off on me not liking it and he’s been doing it more and more often. So, still stretched across the kitchen table with his cum dripping from my arse and my face cradled in one of his hands while he lit a cigarette with the other, I asked him whether, maybe in the future we could use a condom.

He leaned back in his chair, narrowing his eyes and blowing smoke in my face.  “What’s it worth, doll?”

“What do you mean?”

“If I promise to use a condom what will you do in return?”

“No, seriously, this isn’t a game it’s something I’m asking you to do.”

“OK, if this isn’t a game then the answer’s no, I’m not going to use a condom and in fact from now on I’m only going to fuck you in the arse and if I feel like it I’ll pimp you out to strangers and get them to fuck you in the arse without a condom too.”

“That’s not fair, you don’t negotiate properly!”

“So now you do want to negotiate?  Well tell me what you’ll do in return.”

“Oh alright, I’ll um…I don’t know, what do you want?”

“I want to pimp you out to strangers and get them to fuck you in the arse without a…NO, don’t throw that!”

Anyway, after a certain amount of squealing and running round the kitchen table, here’s what we agreed:

(1)I acknowledge unreservedly that I’m D’s fucktoy to do whatever he feels appropriate with up to and including pimping me out to strangers who fuck me up the arse without a condom.

(2)D accepts that his theoretical right to do this comes with attendant responsibilities, for example, the responsibility not to actually pimp me out to strangers for any purposes.

(3)This bargain to be sealed by my submission to being fucked up the arse without a condom again, effective immediately together with his pledge to pull out before cumming.

(4)You are all witnesses to this agreement.

And the moral of this story is never, never enter into a contractual agreement with a naked man with an erection. And don’t waste your money placing bets on whether he kept his part of the bargain.

Alfresco Lesbian Naughtiness

The Lesbian Vampire movie went on a location scout today for some suitable woods through which Anna and I can be chased before being captured and tied up. There isn’t a vast selection of woods in North London to be honest, so we ended up in and around Highgate Woods, taking photos. I did ask why we didn’t just all run through the wood, shooting the movie and then go and have a cup of tea. But apparently I don’t understand. These are just photos for the ‘mood board’ and there are still lots of decisions to be made before actual film can be shot. I asked what decisions those were and D said for example what are you going to be wearing, hmm? Is it going to be thin summer frocks that cling to your shivering bodies and get ripped to pieces on branches? Maybe you’ve been swimming and you’re only wearing bikinis when the zombies come after you? Perhaps you’ve been indulging in alfresco lesbian naughtiness just before the zombies turn up and you’re wearing a selection of frilly underwear. I mean we just don’t know yet do we? I let him finish and then pointed out the number of people walking their dogs through Highgate Woods and suggested we wear anoraks and avoid being arrested. Besides, I thought our characters only became lesbian vampires after being attacked by zombies, but if we’re lesbians before we’re attacked then that’s thrown all my preparations for the role out of the window and I’ll have to start again.

Generally, it was one of those days when you’re glad there are other people there or no one would ever speak again. Anyway, scroll down to the pictures to see the results plus some related subject matter taken at D’s parents’ place. If you’ve ever fantasised about me coming after you with an axe, scoot on down there and take a look.

Too Hot For Blogging Today

I’ve been cutting down overgrown bushes in the garden and digging up a recalcitrant tree stump. By tea time I was covered in dirt and streaked with sweat, my hair was stuck to my face and neck and my fingernails were all broken. D finally sauntered out ‘to help’ now that he was sure I had finished. He helped by switching on the hose and making as if to chase me round the garden – but I was so tired and grimy that I just peeled off my bikini and let him soak me, squealing as the freezing water cascaded down my body and spluttering as he sprayed my face. Eventually he got me backed against the wall, the spout of the hose nudged between my pussy lips, his tongue deep in my mouth as he crushed his lips roughly against mine, and I squirmed and moaned as the water thundered against my clit until I was cumming, clawing at the wall behind me, my gasps muffled. He pulled away suddenly, taking a step back and letting the still-gushing hose drop to the ground. For a moment he stood with his hands in his pockets, a grin on his face, looking at me, naked and dripping and trembling. Then he sauntered off indoors again, leaving me to sit down abruptly on the ground, hugging my shaking legs and breathing hard.

There Is No Safe Word

“There are two things you need to know. This is going to hurt and there is no safe word. It ends when I say. Nothing you say or do will make it stop.”

I teeter on five inch stiletto heels, my feet planted apart, my bum jutting out. With my fingers locked behind my head and my elbows drawn back, my tits are thrust out and trembling. I can hear him circling me slowly but can’t see him through the scarf tied around my eyes. I haven’t seen the switch he carries. Cut from the garden and rubbed smooth of buds, its tip frayed, I’ve been allowed to touch it, running my fingers along its narrow, whippy length. Ordered to hold my hand out, I’ve squealed at its cut, jumping in shock and clenching my fingers tightly as the burning line shot across my palm.

Now he brushes the insides of my thighs with it, sliding it across my belly, tickling my aching nipples with its feathery tip. With a sudden whooshing sound it whistles through the air and I squeal and jump. It flicks past my body, I can feel the rush of air, but doesn’t touch me. D laughs at my skittishness and waits for me to resume the position.

This time he slowly draws the switch between the lips of my pussy, soaking it in my juices and dragging it against the swollen flesh of my clit while I groan helplessly and sigh as its soft tip brushes my clit. “Please,” I whisper. D freezes. “Please what, slut?” I bite my lip, ashamed. He slides his fingers around my neck, circling it and he leans in to whisper in my ear. “Please what, slut?” My voice cracks as I whisper back, “Please whip me.”

He takes a sudden step back and slashes the switch sharply across both my buttocks as I scream and hop from one foot to the other, tits jiggling and buttocks shuddering as I try to dance away the pain. He waits for me to slowly stop, breathing harder now as I resume the position. Two more slashes, one forehand, one backhand, quickly across each buttock make me shriek and dance again. He doesn’t wait for me to stop before whipping the tops of my thighs, cutting up into the crease of my buttocks. Then gripping my arm and spinning me round to face him he whips my belly and I bend over sharply, gasping. He jerks me upright again and gently places the switch against the underside of my heaving tits.

For seconds we stand there, my breathing slowing and becoming deeper, my tits rising and falling against the switch. I can hear his ragged breathing and feel his fingertips dig deeper into the flesh of my arm. I lick my dry lips and move them silently, unable to form the words at first, then, in a tiny whisper, “Please”.

“Please what, slut?” 

“Please whip me.” 

The switch cuts across both my tits with a searing flash and as I scream and start to double up he lets go of my arm and I fall heavily to my knees on the floor, hugging my tits and gasping.

I can hear him sitting in an armchair, I know he’s watching me, waiting to see what I’ll do. I run through the options. I could rip this stupid scarf off and complain that it hurt. But he told me it would hurt and I longed for it. I could snatch the switch from his hand and turn it on him. But I picture him effortlessly holding me at bay with one hand and I droop a little. No, there’s only one option for a slut like me. Trembling, I shift onto my hands and knees and crawl across the floor towards him, rubbing my cheek against his bulging cock, curling my tongue around it and gagging as he cups my chin, tipping my head back and forcing his cock all the way in.

Days 2 Lucy's Next Spanking 1

Wake late this morning and D has already gone out for his last physio session and hopefully to get signed back fit for work. The magnetic letters on the fridge now say

IS NOT THUGGISH RIOT

RED HOT OF WEARINESS

I pull up a kitchen chair and waste what’s left of the morning sitting in knickers and t-shirt with my reading glasses perched on the end of my nose, crossly shifting the magnetic letters around until finally they spell

THIS IS GOING TO HURT

THERE IS NO SAFE WORD

I sit frozen, staring at this and wondering whether he’s gone crazy. Maybe somewhere he’s got a manuscript that reads ‘all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’ over and over again and he’ll end the day by breaking down the bedroom door with an axe. I feel all stirred up now, alarmed and excited and scared and powerfully turned on. I’ve spent the whole day thinking about tomorrow’s spanking. Twice it’s got too much for me and I’ve had to finger my pussy. The first, in time-honoured fashion, leaning against the washing machine during the spin cycle and the second sprawled on the sofa, my jeans furiously kicked off, one leg hooked over the back of the sofa, the other dangling over its edge, both hands inside my sopping knickers as I groaned and arched my back.

When he came home I pretended I was busy in the kitchen but I peeped slyly from under my fringe as he glanced at the fridge, seeing that I’d solved the anagrams. While I chopped carrots he stood close behind me, his breath on my neck, lightly stroking my arse through my jeans. I tried to play it cool and carry on cooking supper but after a few seconds I gave in and pressed my bum against his stiff cock, rubbing it as I rolled my hips and sighing. He laughed, circling my waist with his arm, propping me on the edge of the kitchen table and tugging at my clothes.

We fucked slowly, my toes hooked over the edge of the sink, my weight resting on my elbows as I leaned back on the table. He dug his fingertips into my hips and thrust hard, watching my tits bounce. Then he reached out to cup the back of my head, leaning over me and kissing me as he fucked faster, his groans vibrating through my lips and tongue as his cock jerked and flooded my cunt with spunk. Then I finished cooking supper naked while he watched.

Toads

Yesterday’s toad in the hole was a triumph but rendered D too fat and sleepy to carry out any of his part of the bargain. Instead, he lay on the sofa groaning while I rubbed his tummy and said, “It’s your own fault”. However, now that I’m in a cooking mood I’ve been baking today – lemon syrup cake and fairy cakes with pink icing and silver balls. This is making D suspicious. He thinks I must be planning something seditious or I’ve done something that I suspect he’s about to find out. I rather like him in this nervously attentive mood so tomorrow I’m making a curry.

The Lesbian Vampire Movie I’ve mentioned previously is now appearing in storyboard form, pinned up in the hall. My little cartoon figure can be distinguished by being drawn with very big boobs and by appearing to be naked in the shower/running away naked/tied up naked in most scenes. I have drawn a felt-tip duffle coat on her in some of the frames for the sake of decency, though this does make the narrative appear even more obscure than it was before, if such a thing is possible.

This has been a way of passing the time while I’ve been listening to friend Lynda sobbing down the phone about how her boyfriend – the ever unreliable Greg – has once again proved to be unreliable. I’m completely useless at giving relationship advice because the only things I really know how to do are bat my eyelashes or bend over for a spanking. The first one works on my Dad and they both work on D.

Talking of which, today, the magnetic letters on the fridge read: DAYS 2 LUCYS NEXT SPANKING 2, which I rearrange o spell SEXY SPUNKY LAD SCANTING. I’m not happy with ‘scanting’, which doesn’t appear to be in the Cambridge dictionary, so I replace one of the number 2s with the letters TO and get SEXY SPUNKING SCANTLING TOAD, which is a happy coincidence but ‘scantling’ is still problematic. So I replace the other number 2 with the letters TWO and make SEXY PUT DOWN TO NASTY SLACKING. After a moment’s consideration I switch back to SEXY SPUNKING SCANTLING TOAD which, while strictly nonsensical, best expresses my current mood.

Bad Mood

I’m in a bad mood today. I had my purse stolen at the swimming baths in the morning and I’ve spent the afternoon freezing my fanny off in the Town Hall. I’ve been posing for life drawing classes again but it’s been a cold, rainy day and all the heating was turned off for what is alleged to be the British summer. Anyone who wanted to practice rendering the texture of goosepimples in pencil today was in luck. The drawings don’t really get any better and one of the old crones complained about me today. In a loud ‘stage whisper’ she said, “Maybe I’m just old fashioned but I do find it a bit upsetting trying to draw a girl without any pubic hair. Somehow it doesn’t seem quite decent.” I briefly considered pretending to burst into tears and claim I have pubic alopecia and it’s ruined my marriage prospects, which is why I’ve chosen the lonely route of a tattooed outcast. But, y’know, fuck her.

So I’m dealing with my horrid day by making toad-in-the-hole. Meanwhile, D has had his second physio session and has also read my previous blog so has wisely not made any further remarks about the wonderfulness of Inge. If he’s very good, eats up all his toad and asks for seconds, I might get out some of my toys tonight and let him watch me play. I have a number of frustrations that need working out physically.

Update: D has just read what I’ve written over my shoulder and has said that he promises to eat seconds on the strict understanding that in return I am to cum twice on each of my vibrators. That’s eight times, which is clearly far too much so I’ve negotiated him down to once on each vibrator plus I’ll suck his cock twice and let him cum in my face both times. He walked away whistling and I was just feeling smug for having beaten him down when somewhere in my head a brain cell dimly flickered and I thought, “Hey…!”

For those of you who keep a note of these things, the magnetic letters on the fridge now say “DAYS 2 LUCYS NEXT SPANKING 3”

Aaaargh!

D had his first physio appointment today. I’ve been telling him to expect a muscular East German who’s had to re-train since drug-testing and the fall of Communism forced her out of the shot-put team. So imagine my irritation that his physio is Inge (23) from Stockholm whose hobbies include nude sunbathing, sodomy and pressing wild flowers and who looks like this (at least in my fevered imagination).

Sorry, can you tell I’m letting my jealousy get the better of me? She’s probably perfectly nice and very professional but if I have to hear one more time what Inge said about muscle tone or how funny Inge was on the subject of yoga classes I shall set fire to his legs.

I shouldn’t be cross really, he’s had an exciting day and now he’s showing off because he’s tired and he’s had too much sugar. There was a time when I’d have wasted valuable brain cells plotting how to combat this sort of thing. I’d wait until he was in the middle of doing something (reading the paper, watching football, revising the bones of the hand) then tell him a long and convoluted story - in the manner of a story told about choosing wallpaper or a reported telephone conversation about your cousin’s wedding – about how I was on my way to the post office when I was abducted by seven burly men in a van who put a sack over my head and ripped my clothes off before trussing me up and driving me to an abandoned warehouse where they took it in turns to bugger me, filming the whole ordeal and then tossing me into the canal from where I struggled only to be picked up by two policemen who took me down the station, locked me in the cells and invited the whole station to assault me hideously with their truncheons. There would be a long pause and then D would say, “What sort of van?” and I would know I’d lost. So these days I just seethe silently.

On a more interesting note, the magnetic letters on the fridge now spell: “DAYS 2 LUCYS NEXT SPANKING 4” so he’s clearly feeling the benefit of the physio.