Lucy's Bedroom

The Rendlesham Forest Incident

I went out on a borrowed bicycle yesterday. It was a bit big for me and I could only stop by toppling sideways off it, so mostly I didn’t stop. But after a couple of hours I had to admit to myself that I was hopelessly lost (Suffolk all looks the same) and I had a numb bum from sitting on the saddle for too long. I wobbled to a stop and toppled off sideways into a grassy ditch where I lay for a while staring at Suffolk’s big sky and considering becoming a survivalist and living off berries. Unfortunately, all my ideas about sleeping rough come from Disney cartoons and I suspect in real life I could be waiting a long time for a small group of helpful bluebirds to drape a blanket of woven leaves and flowers over my sleeping body.

After a lot more random cycling in drizzle I stumbled on Rendlesham Forest, site of the Rendelsham Forest Incident, which is a kind of English Roswell Incident. Some soldiers from a nearby military base claimed that a spaceship landed here in 1980 and there is, naturally, a healthy body of conspiracy theories, mostly centred round the fact that the Ministry of Defence denied they’d ever investigated the reports and then it subsequently turned out they had a thick file on the subject. Conspiracy theorists being what they are, they find it impossible to interpret ‘we never investigated’ as ‘oh do piss off and leave us alone you dreary people’. Still, I’m glad to see the Forestry Commission, which owns the land, getting into the spirit of things. They’ve set up a series of signposts with maps marking the ‘Rendlesham Forest UFO Trail’. I expect somewhere they’ve got a teashop that sells ‘We saw the UFO at Rendlesham (but the MoD made us sign the Official Secrets Act)’ bumper stickers.

Got home very wet and tired and sat in the hot tub in the garden with D, up to our necks in hot water while fine rain splashed the surface. D doesn’t consider local soldiers to be reliable witnesses to a UFO sighting. He tells me stories about soldiers, bored witless from months posted to a county that hasn’t entirely left the 1950s behind, getting off their heads on magic mushrooms and having their dicks sucked by underage girls in return for bottles of vodka in the churchyard – “like something from The Wicker Man”. Sometimes I’m a mistress of the inessential detail. Given that D’s story contained the following elements – magic mushrooms, vodka, blow jobs – what do you think my next question was?

“How do you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well either you’re repeating something someone else told you – in which case you’re not in any position to complain about unreliable witnesses – or you were an eye-witness – in which case what were you doing in the churchyard while all the drunken-teen-sex was going on, hmmm?”

“Well obviously I was having my cock sucked by (ex-girlfriend). Honestly, how many times do I have to explain this to you, there’s nothing else to do here.”

Well if that isn’t my cue I don’t know what is. The rain was falling quite hard now so we dashed inside for our blow job, pausing only to grab a bottle of vodka from the larder, for that authentic local touch. D sprawled in an armchair in his bedroom, swigging from the bottle, while I knelt at his feet, sucking his cock hungrily. Every so often he’d tug on my hair, jerking my head back so that his cock slipped from my mouth and he could trickle some more vodka down my throat before shoving my mouth back down onto his cock.

I got very drunk very quickly – and I suspect I got the lion’s share of the vodka because D’s cock stayed hard as a rock. I got giggly and sloppy, with saliva dripping from my chin as I stretched my tongue right out of my mouth to try to lap at his balls while I deep-throated his cock. I woke this morning with a pounding headache, a throat raw from fucking and a trickle of dried spunk between my buttocks. I have no memory of being fucked in the arse last night and I tentatively ask D about it.

“Yes, of course you’d mostly passed out by then.”

“Mostly?”

“Well you grunted a little bit when I prodded you.”

“So you thought you’d take advantage of my drunken stupor to fuck me up the arse.”

“Well we were having a nostalgia night and it’s been years since I’ve had to get a girl incapably drunk before I could do rude things to her…”

“You’re a very bad man.” 

The God Of North London

Hooray, D has two days off and he’s here in Suffolk with me! Did you ever fuck so much you felt drugged with it? My limbs feel heavy and stiff and my pussy’s bruised and tender and my belly’s rounded and full of spunk but I crave more. D’s gone to sleep and however much I stare at him and will him to wake up with an erection he just won’t. In a minute I might crawl across and surreptitiously start sucking his sleeping cock.

He’s working off a lot of anger in sex; I can feel his whole body stiff with it and the sex is furious and rough. His cock’s like a weapon, stabbing away at me until I’m obliterated by it. And if you think that doesn’t sound compassionate you’re wrong. It’s raw and emotional and I cling to him and beg him to fuck me harder because I want to be totally lost in fucking; I want him to fuck all the trouble away.

I know I said I wasn’t going to write anything about what happened to me recently, but while D’s asleep I’d just like to rail against whatever god’s in charge of North London because when I had to go to casualty he sent me to the hospital where D works. In all the fluster and confusion, the thing I remember with a vividness that will never leave me is D crying as he tried to help me. I’d do anything for that not to have happened.

I’ve just noticed, I thought his arm was curled above his head on the pillow but actually it’s still tied to the bed stead with the sash from my robe. Normally of course, I’d be the victim of any tying-up that was going on. But tonight the mood took me and I straddled his waist while I slowly slipped the sash free and wrapped it round my hands, snapping it taut as the corners of my mouth twitched. Freudians would say I’m tying him up because I don’t want him to go back to London – but then Freudians always say something like that. What they need is a good fuck.

Even tied up he fucked me hard until I was reaching behind me to grip his thighs, holding on tight as he arched his back and hammered his cock into me while I rode it. My tits bounced wildly as my buttocks slapped against his thighs and my cunt squelched and dripped as I squeezed it tight around his cock. Through clenched teeth he hissed at me, “Tighter!” and I squirmed on his cock, grinding it into my cunt as he gasped, “Tighter!” Slowly I rose up on my knees, letting his cock, slick with my juices, slip from my cunt. With the fingers of one hand I gripped his shaft, rubbing my thumb across the head of his cock as I stroked it. With the fingers of the other hand I tickled my arsehole open, pressing the tip of one finger inside and readying it.

I sat back on his cock, impaling my arse on it in one stroke, squeezing his cock tight inside it while he groaned and writhed beneath me. Leaning forward, I put the palm of one hand over his mouth – this is his parents’ house – muffling his grunts as I fucked his cock deep into my arse. He bit the soft mound under my thumb gently as his spunk spurted into my arse and I shuddered, lifting off his cock and spreading my arsehole open with my fingers, letting his spunk drip out onto his belly.

His skin beaded with sweat, his arms pinioned above him, he lifted his head from the pillow to look down at his spunk pooling in his belly button. Then he looked up at me again. “Lick it up you dirty cow.”

I’m getting cold now and my pussy’s wet. Time to see if I can accidentally wake him up by sliding into bed beside him and curling my body around his…

In Which Spiders, Cows and Baby Owls All Feature

D’s dad is building an extension to their house in a mad ecological way, with bales of straw and plaster that has clumps of horse hair in it and smells of wee. I’ve been keeping well away from this for fear I’ll be asked to touch something that might contain spiders or wee. But today, his friend’s son is helping out and so I have, to my great shame, been parading back and forth with cups of tea and offers to hold ladders steady. Friend’s son is rather saturnine and brooding – a hundred years ago he’d have been a character in a Thomas Hardy novel who goes off the rails after being spurned by a local girl with ideas above her station (that’d be me).

In a break for rain I ask him questions. He sprawls on floor of the barn, propped up against a bale of straw, I sit cross-legged next to him, not quite leaning against the straw in case spiders leap into my hair and make nests in it. The questions I really want to ask him (and I’ve had all morning to think of these) are: do you have a girlfriend; can I see your cock; do you have any condoms? What I actually ask him is a series of disjointed questions about what he does when he isn’t lobbing wee-plaster around the place; what he likes to do in the evenings; where he got his tattoo done. It never develops into a conversation because his answers are monosyllabic and he shows no interest in asking me anything. I get annoyed and come very close to asking him whether he’s retarded.

That evening, as he’s leaving, he finally summons up enough words to ask me to go for a drink. I briefly picture the evening: sitting in some inbred Suffolk pub nursing a warm gin and tonic while listening to him talk to his equally dense friends about rugby or tractors; crushed up against the outside wall of the pub at closing time with his tongue in my mouth and his cock digging into my belly; 2.5 minutes of foreplay-free shagging in the back of his car while cows stare at us through the windows. And do you know what? I never had any intention of doing any of that, I’m just missing D, so I look solemn and tell him I’d love to but I’m nursing a baby owl back to health. And he nods sagely, as though that’s an adequate explanation of anything.

My friend Jim rings and asks me what I’ve been doing today. “I nearly screwed one of the locals but he turned out to be a self-absorbed twat so in the end I didn’t. And I’m nursing a baby owl back to health” (I’ve grown attached to this story). In return, he tells me a story about going out on a stag night and bumping into a (completely unrelated) hen night and getting his cock sucked in the ladies by a girl with pierced nipples before taking another of the girls home and fucking her in the arse (“She was very drunk so I suppose I shouldn’t have taken advantage. But then if she’d been sober she’d probably have said no…”)

Jim’s not very gentlemanly when it comes to adult entertainment and his back catalogue of conquests includes a string of other people’s girlfriends (one night only – usually after they’ve had a row with their boyfriend and they’re feeling emotional); his girlfriends’ best friends (he says the trick is to suggest something a bit shocking like bondage or a threesome – he either gets his face slapped or gets a free go on a girl who’s going to feel too guilty to say anything afterwards); and, for a brief and glorious three weeks, identical twins. He always said the only way he could tell them apart was that one of them would take it up the arse and the other wouldn’t.

At some point in every late-night conversation I have with him he asks, “How come I’ve never fucked you, Lu?”

“It’s because you’re low-life scum”

“But entirely hypothetically, if I did, would you let me do terrible things to you?”

“Hypothetically?  It would depend on how terrible…”

“Let’s say I wanted you to crawl across the floor towards me, naked and oiled, with a huge vibrator buzzing away in your arsehole while I fucked your face…”

“That’s not very terrible”

“…on live national TV.”

“I’d love to but I’m nursing a baby owl back to health.”

Whole Day Wasted

Yesterday’s parcel from D contained dirty books. You know the sort. In W H Smith they’re usually shelved near Military History so that if you walk round the corner too quickly, the small knot of men standing there can pretend that’s what they’re looking at. I opened them at the breakfast table – “Oh, nothing, just something for my course” – and then nearly choked trying to eat toast too quickly so I could dash upstairs and take a proper look.

The first one has characters called Trixie and Rolf and appears to have been written by someone who’s never met any actual people. Everyone’s rich and sexually uninhibited, especially Trixie’s daughter (whose name escapes me now – let’s call her Ermintrude) on whom Rolf has evil designs.

The next one has the following on the back cover: ‘A party of British debutantes is shipwrecked on a tropical island, where they meet a distinguished French scientist claiming descent from the Marquis de Sade’. I can’t bear to open this one because that summary’s so perfect it couldn’t possibly live up to my expectations. I hope the debutantes are great galumphing 1930s-style debs with tiaras and crushes on the Prince of Wales.

The third one, opened at random, contains the phrase ‘my bloated vaginal entrance’. I shut it quickly with a shudder. ‘Bloated’ is a bad word and I have a mental picture of her ‘vaginal entrance’ as having a nice Victorian tiled floor and maybe some stained glass in the window with a few umbrellas cluttering up the corner and some letters on the mat. No, this one was clearly written by an estate agent with an irritable bowel.

I settle down with the final one, set in Victorian London, which, like all dirty stories that are set in Victorian England, is about a poor servant girl who becomes prey to the depraved attentions of an evil master. I rather like this one as its writer understands that nobody’s reading her book for its subtle characterisation, absorbing plot or insights into Victorian life. The poor servant girl has a rather thin time of it. She gets brutally corseted, whipped to within an inch of her life and sold into prostitution. She’s fought over by the wicked madam of her brothel and her most decadent customer – a fight they conduct by means of increasingly gothic and cruel treatment of the wretched girl. Highlights of this contest include: locking her in a game-keeper’s hut during a snow storm with a broken-off icicle slowly melting in her cunt; piercing the hood of her clit on either side in such a way that her clit can be locked away with a tiny silver ring and padlock; spanking her tits until she’s breathless and sobbing; and chaining her, naked and blindfold, at the top of the stairs of the brothel for each visitor to use her mouth. Throughout it all, she’s completely passive, eyes lowered, speaking when she’s spoken to, opening her legs and her mouth when ordered, meekly accepting every humiliation. The sex is nasty, dirty and prolonged and I cum four times, the pages of the book sticky and the print smudged from my fingers.

Afterwards I lie on the bed for a while, idly sucking my fingers, naked from the waist down. I plan a book about a frigid girl who undergoes hypnotherapy to unlock her sexuality and regresses to a series of previous lives in which she’s brutally abused and fucked at a variety of periods in history. But I can’t decide whether the ending should be that she comes to the conclusion that her frigidity is a sensible response to her past lives and goes away happy or that the therapist is so overcome with lust listening to her tales that he hypnotises her into being his sex slave leaving her thinking she’s been cured, discovered a taste for masochism and made a choice to stay with him, little realising it’s all a cruel trick.

In the face of such indecision there’s nothing for it but to slide a couple of fingers into my still-sloppy cunt and frig myself senseless while thinking very hard about being laced into a whale-boned corset, lashed to the foot of a four-poster bed and thrashed with an elephant-hide whip.

Oh god, I’ve wasted the whole day on this.  I’m such a slut.

In The Tack Room

Thank you everyone who read yesterday’s blog about Catherine the Great and sent me smutty messages about having sex with horses. I’d like to say I’m surprised and disappointed in you but actually it’s about the level I’ve come to expect. (For the benefit of anyone who’s frowning and looking puzzled: she was rumoured to have died attempting to have sex with her horse. Actually she had a stroke while sitting on the lavatory.)

Because I’m secretly a bit posh, I was gymkhana girl when I was younger. I had shiny brown boots and jodhpurs and I was in the Pony Club. I rode my little heart out in nail-biting 11s-and-under contests the length and breadth of the Home Counties, for all the world like the plucky little heroine of a girls’ comic (Lucy, Dauntless Girl Equestrian). Then one morning I turned 12 and woke up with big knockers and that was the end of innocence. It’s hard to concentrate on racing your fat little pony through the slalom and back with the hoop when all you’re thinking about is your tits juddering every time you rise and fall in the saddle. Because I was brought up by my Dad, I had nobody to take me aside and explain quietly about sports bras so instead I took up being moody and withdrawn in my incense-reeking, candle-lit bedroom, occasionally slamming the door on my way to the bathroom to dye my hair pink. All of which you can easily do with big tits.

D’s parents ride and this morning I walked down to the paddock and had a crafty fag in the tack room while I thought about what I was going to write. Every time I’m in there I find myself reciting in my head the orders of the tack: all the different types of snaffles and bits and when each should be used. I had to learn it all when I was nine to pass a Pony Club test. The D-Ring Snaffle with the Roller Bit - that’s the one D fastened me into the first time we were in here together. He knotted the leather straps tightly at the back of my head because the buckles are all in the wrong place on a proper bit and snaffle. The cold D-shaped rings pressed against my cheeks and the bit trapped my tongue, rolling shakily against it as he slid his cock into my mouth, gripping the knot of leather and jerking my head back and forth.

With my tongue trapped I struggled to lick his thrusting cock, eventually giving up and gazing mutely up at him, saliva dripping from the corners of my mouth as he fucked my throat, gagging and spluttering and twisting my head away to gasp and cough but always jerked back into place again, his cock fed back down my throat and my head yanked back and forth faster while I curled my fingers round his thighs and whimpered.

Unable to swallow properly without the use of my tongue, I spluttered his spunk out of my mouth until it dripped in long gloopy trails down my chin and onto my tits. He scooped it up with his fingers and smeared it onto my lips and across my cheeks, forcing his fingers into my mouth and making me suck them clean. And as I stood there today remembering all this, I picked up the snaffle and pressed one of its cold rings against my cheek.

I remember asking him afterwards whether he’d brought all of his girlfriends into the tack room.

“Oh yes, at least all the ones that came home with me came into the tack room.”

“And did you do to them what you just did to me?”

“No, though not for want of asking.”

“What did they say?”

“Some ran screaming, other gave me an old-fashioned look and changed the subject.  You’re the only one whose eyes lit up.”

And it’s true. I lay curled up on my side on the cold stone floor, shivering in the draught that came under the door, my face caked in spunk, my legs stiff and aching from kneeling, listening to the soft hiss of D outside having a pee against the wall as I clenched the bit hard between my teeth and moaned, my fingers working busily between my thighs as I started to cum.

This evening I sent D a text: “I’ve been in the tack room”.

He texted back: “You dirty girl!”

In The Bath With Marie Antoinette

Posted after a nasty incident and a short break. 

Hello from Suffolk. I’ve spent a happy day planting trees (I built a bat box!) and most of the evening trying to round up some over-stimulated chickens. I’m staying with D’s parents and it’s nice and peaceful. There’s an owl outside my window, I’m wearing hand-knitted socks and there are three cats snoring on my bed. I feel much better.

Thank you everyone who left encouraging messages, I did appreciate it. I’ve been advised not to write in any detail about what happened – advice I was planning to ignore because what’s the point in being a blogger if you don’t write about what happens to you? But D’s very against me writing about it and as he’s normally so relaxed about me writing about everything else it seems only fair to listen to him this time.

D’s still in London because of work but he’s taken to posting me things – a pink hat, some silky knickers, a book about Marie Antoinette, a box of baklava – I love parcels and I get one every day! Of course it’s a bit sad really because it’s displacement. He doesn’t know what to do to make things better and so he does this. I’ve been showing my appreciation with some particularly salacious bits of phone sex – and as a result of letting my imagination get the better of me there are now three new things on D’s secret list of things he’s definitely going to make me do if I’m not good.

Now I’m going to have a long soak in the bath and imagine I’m the young Marie Antoinette, sobbing as she’s stripped of her clothes on the Austrian border before being laced tightly by beastly courtiers into French fashions and driven into a flower-strewn Strasbourg. At this point I might get her slightly confused with Catherine the Great of Russia and her string of lovers, at least one of whom may turn out to be in the carriage with me as we rattle over the cobbled streets…

Raspberry Sauce

Our ice cream melted. I’m not entirely disappointed because I don’t approve of posh ice cream as it has bits of vanilla pod in it and I really don’t think ice cream should be gritty. No, I’m a cheap and cheerful girl. Give me a good old-fashioned rum ‘n’ raisin chock full of additives any day.

The reason our ice cream melted is of course the rash purchase of a squeezy bottle of raspberry sauce to go with it. And there are only two things you can do with a squeezy bottle of raspberry sauce. Needless to say, we did the other thing. I’m in that mellow ‘just had a really good pussy licking and cum twice’ kind of place. D has a tummy full of raspberry sauce and feels a bit sick.

I’m not normally a fan of food sex; it’s a waste of a good Mars Bar. And we once had a bad experience with a chilli pepper, the moral of which is ‘always get him to demonstrate on his own bits before you let him anywhere near yours’.

All of which is a preamble to the fact that we’ve finally found a use for the stack of horrible watery canned beer someone brought to a party and that’s been cluttering up my fridge for months. For some reason I brought it with me when I moved – I can only blame blind panic as I ran out of time to pack and started tipping the entire contents of cupboards into boxes indiscriminately.  Scroll down for the pix.   

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

D is on a stag night for someone he works with.  He phones me past midnight.

“Where are you?  Are you in a club?  I can hardly hear you for the music”

“We’re in a strip club.”

“And you thought you’d phone to tell me that?”

“No, I thought I phone to say you have nicer tits than any of the girls in here.”

“What have you done?  That was an unsolicited compliment.  Have you done something terrible?”

“I’m ignoring that.”

“Has X behaved himself?”

“No, he’s off having a private dance.”

“And are you going to do that too?”

“Not sure.  Don’t think I want to.”

*oh bless, bless*

“Good boy.  Stay away from the nasty women.”

*quietly* “Will you dance for me when I get home?”

Now, I’ve done this before as a birthday treat but we’ve moved house since then and do you think I can find anything I want? I rifle frantically through half-unpacked cases and boxes but there’s no sign of anything I wore last time. I improvise hastily with a scarf thrown over the bedside lamp to give the room a dim, rosy glow. I put on a pink g-string and rub glittery body lotion into my skin. I wear the red shoes he bought me, wobbling a little on their teetering heels as I rush round the bedroom. I make my eyes up heavily, adding false lashes as a final, strip-club touch, and I paint my lips scarlet and glossy. There’s no time to do anything much with my hair though – I wish I could change it dramatically. It’s now quarter to one in the morning. I ring Lynda.

“Hi, sorry it’s me, don’t worry nothing’s wrong I’m just trying to, well, y’know do something before D gets home and I’m in a bit of a panic because half the stuff’s still packed away and I haven’t got much time and anyway, have you still got that blonde wig you wore to that party and can I borrow it? Now?”

Lynda grunts sleepily, which I take to mean yes, and I throw my coat on over what I’m (not) wearing and jump into the car. I take a deep breath and drive very carefully as however much of a fluster I’m in I can see the disadvantages of being stopped for speeding while dressed as one of the girls from Spearmint Rhino. Lynda, to give her credit, does not flinch when she opens the door and sees me.

“So I take it that when you say you’re trying to do something before D gets home you don’t mean bake a cake or vacuum the hall.”

“Yes, much as I’d love to have a long conversation with you about this, I’ve put a lot of effort into it which will be wasted if he gets home first and just goes to sleep.”

Lynda laughs and hands me the wig. Then puts a finger to her lips and tugs me by the lapel until I’m peeping round her bedroom door at the gently snoring male mound of bedclothes. It’s nobody I recognise. She holds two fingers in the air, far enough apart to suggest a cock of generous proportions. I give her the thumbs-up and scurry out to the car.

The blonde wig is fabulous, I look like a 1968 Vegas showgirl, and I just have enough time to gather my composure and stretch out on the bed before D comes home.

His first question takes me by surprise.

“What’s your name?”

Damn!  I didn’t think about having a new identity and my mind’s blank.

“My name’s Lucille.”

“Reminds me of someone I know.  How much do you charge for a private dance, Lucille?”

“That depends on what you want me to do.”

D peels off notes, tossing them onto my belly. He folds the last £20 between his fingers and tucks it inside my g-string, his fingers brushing my sopping slit as he rests them there for a second, gazing up at me.

“I want you to do everything.”

And so I do.

What Jane Austen Didn't Know

Today D has been stitching up knife wounds and as a reward has come home with a pocket full of plastic handcuffs, courtesy of a friendly bobby. Apparently, when they were having a quick fag in the car park the conversation turned to domestic bondage and the officer recommended them most highly. I am slightly agog and also reminded of something my English teacher once said, which is that Jane Austen never wrote a conversation in which no women were present because she didn’t know what men talked about when they were alone. If the current evidence is anything to go by the conversation goes:

“Got a light?”

“Yes.  Got anything that might be handy for tying a girl up before you fuck her?”

“Funny you should ask me that ‘cos I always use plastic handcuffs on my missus. Course, we’re not really meant to take them home with us but it’s only like nicking post-it notes when you think about it.”

“Great, I’ll have half a dozen.” 

He cuffed my wrists in front of me, pulling the straps tight, and then he ‘took down my particulars’. Or at least he took down my jeans and knickers, tugging my t-shirt up over my tits. I knelt at his feet, my wrists aching as I wriggled my hands in an effort to keep the circulation going, my cheek bulging as he rubbed the head of his cock against it.

Then he slid the shaft of his cock between my hands while I sucked eagerly on its head and wanked it into my mouth. And when he was ready to cum he made me stretch out my tongue until it ached, spurting his spunk onto it and watching it roll down my throat and spill over the edges of my mouth, dribbling down my chin. When he pulled his cock away, a long trail of spunk hung, trembling for a second between the tip of my tongue and the head of his cock before it flopped down onto my tits.

By now my wrists were red and sore and the plastic cut into them. He took pity on me and cut them off, kissing the inside of my wrists. The bruises stand out dark purple against my white skin and I feel a little nervous tremor when I look at them. I hope they’re still as obvious tomorrow – I feel like showing them off and letting everyone see what an evil fucker my boyfriend is and how much I love it!

Can't Take Us Anywhere

The waiter addresses D, even though I’m the one holding the menu and waiting to give the order. I start to speak to him. Then stop. I wait for him to give me his attention before starting again. He stares at my tits.

After he’s gone I fume to D, “It’s not as though I’m wearing anything revealing. You could introduce me to your maiden aunt dressed like this. I mean, does he think that’s where the sound comes from when I’m talking?”

The waiter comes back and I stare at the tablecloth, crossly. Just before he puts the plate down in front of me, D says, “Oops, hang on a minute” and reaches across the table. The waiter straightens up, holding the plate hovering above the table as D stretches across and undoes the top two buttons of my shirt, revealing deep cleavage and the lacy edge of my bra. He smiles up at the waiter. “Carry on.” The waiter blushes, puts down the plates and scuttles off.

Later, D does his usual horrid trick of not ordering pudding but then trying to eat mine. We clash spoons and I bristle like a territorial cat. He licks his spoon and narrows his eyes at me. “Go to the ladies’ and take your bra off.”

“No, you ate my pudding.  I’m never doing anything you tell me ever again.”

“If you don’t do exactly what I tell you to do right now young lady, I’m going to bend you over this table in front of everyone, pull down your knickers and give you a damn good spanking.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort.”

“And then, when your arse is scarlet and your face is streaked with mascara, I’m going to ask that waiter to bring one of everything on the pudding menu, smear them all over your pussy and invite him to lick them off.”

I shift, uneasily in my seat, conscious of the first stirring of my clit.

“Then I’m going to spread your cunt wide open with my fingers and fuck you with that pepperpot.” He points at an enormous, Italian-restaurant-comedy-pepperpot and I snort with laughter. Still shaking, I get up and make for the ladies’. As I pass, the women on the next table abruptly avoid catching my eye. They’ve been listening!

I come back, still unbuttoned to the bottom of my cleavage, tits bouncing as I stride across the room on my high heels, nipples stiff and clearly outlined against the thin white fabric of the shirt. I drop my bra onto the table in front of D; he leaves it lying there and motions for the bill.

D pays the bill slowly, examining it and searching through his wallet for his card. Meanwhile the waiter stares at my bra sitting on the table. His eyes flit furtively across to look at me and this time I gaze levelly back at him, sitting up a little straighter in my chair, my shoulders drawn back and my tits thrust out.

We don’t get far. Three doors down from the restaurant, in the doorway of a dress shop, our lips crush together, our teeth clashing as we kiss urgently. I suck on his tongue as it forces between my lips and shiver as he undoes the rest of the buttons on my blouse. Cupping and kneading my tits, he moans into my mouth. The headlights of a passing car sweep over us and we freeze, guiltily in the doorway, then we collapse into giggles. I wrap my coat around my body, still unbuttoned underneath and D hooks his arm into mine as we run down the road. “Next time,” he pants, “we’re going to leave him your knickers.”