Lucy's Bedroom

Sea Sick

Day three of this job and tonight we were on a boat, which is bad news for me as I get very sea sick. Even tethered boats that have been turned into bars and restaurants make me queasy. When I was little we used to go to Brittany on the ferry every summer and I spent the whole trip on deck, being blown about in a gale while vomiting into a plastic bag.

This boat went up and down the Thames from Chelsea to Greenwich and back again. There was music and food and champagne but I spent a good part of the evening being sick while a German industrialist held my hair off my face. I managed to splash my nice frock, which was taken off me and sponged while I lay on a bench in my knickers and the German industrialist stroked my hand and said soothing things in German. (I don’t speak German, he may actually have been saying, “Hurry up and take your knickers off you silly woman.”). It’s astonishing how many people want to come and check you’re okay when you’re lying about in public with your tits out. The extreme greenness of my face discouraged any closer attention.

Even now, sitting on the bed typing, it feels like the room is bobbing up and down.

Salami

I feel I have to apologise to Marianne, who’s the girl who was shagging in the ladies last night. She’s very cross. “He’s a millionaire with a cock the size of a salami and you sent that joker in to interrupt us!”

I can’t think of anything to say.

“What type of salami?”

She laughs.  “A big one, my eyes were watering.” 

Oh, heavens I’m a bad woman. I can’t stop thinking about it. I get Marianne to point him out to me and all night I can’t stop shooting glances in his direction. It gets me a telling-off from the organiser who can see I’m not paying attention.

Now, let’s divert here into the sensitive subject of whether size matters. The traditional answer, given by innocently-wide-eyed women throughout history is, “Of course not! It’s what you do with it that counts.” But girls, we know that’s not completely true. Smaller ones have their advantages – easier blow jobs for instance – but no amount of expert tonguing quite obliterates the initial disappointment of thinking, “Oh, it’s a bit on the small side.” On the other hand, the initial gusset-dampening excitement of a big one can be speedily worn away by foreplay-free indifferent fucking.

As the evening progresses, word spreads about the size of Marianne’s millionaire’s cock. And when I say ‘word spreads’, of course I mean ‘I tell all the other girls’. As Marianne has the teeny-tiny James Bond camera and has so far only taken pictures of people standing in a row and grinning, pressure builds for her to get a picture of his cock. Amazingly, she achieves this by the simple expedient of telling him she has a collection of photos of cocks belonging to all the men she’s had sex with and would he mind if she photographed his cock? It is, indeed, enormous. We pass the camera around in silent wonder.

Russian Mafia

This week I am working for the Russian Mafia. Officially I’m a ‘hostess’ at a conference of ‘luxury goods’ suppliers but really, who are we kidding here? There are eight of us and we’ve all been bought little black dresses for the occasion. The personal shopper at Harvey Nichols looked us each up and down in turn and gave his assessment of our needs. “I’m thinking Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s…Oh, definitely Julie Christie swinging London…mmm, perhaps Bond girl oriental for you my dear…” When he gets to me he slaps his hands against his cheeks and shrieks, “Oh my God! Gina Lollobrigida!”

I have a fantastic dress. It’s black silk with a halter neck that leaves my shoulders bare and plunges right to the bottom of my cleavage, cupping and offering up my tits like jelly on a plate. The waist is cinched and the knee-length skirt has tiny pleats that flare out over my hips and bum. It sways and rustles when I walk and even if I say so myself I look very fuckable.

The venue is a private members’ club, which is of course already fully staffed with people who carry trays of drinks and take your coat at the door. It only becomes clear in our ‘pep talk’ that our job is not to do those things but rather to be ‘socially amenable’. Translated, this means smile and make eye contact when they’re telling you how wonderful and important they are, always accept drinks but pour most of them into the potted palms, laugh at their dirty stories but not too much and don’t slap their faces when they touch you up. Oh, and we will be demonstrating some ‘luxury goods’. I’m handed a teeny-tiny camera and asked what I know about cameras. I explain that I once dropped one in the sea in Wales and it’s taken off me and I’m given a Cartier watch to wear instead – I have to sign for it, even though it’s the most vulgar thing I’ve ever seen and I wouldn’t be caught dead stealing it. I’m not entirely sure how you demonstrate a watch – perhaps you sail up to random people with a big smile, lift your wrist level with their eyes and say, “Twenty-past eleven” with a tinkling laugh.

The evening itself is an absolute bore-fest of aching feet, cigar smoke and braying laughter. My face muscles ache from smiling and nobody has asked me the time. Things I have learned include: having a yacht doesn’t make you happy because some bugger’s always got a bigger one; it is possible to have a humidor the size of a room to keep your cigars in; Poland is run by identical twins.

D phones.  “You okay?”

“Poland is run by identical twins.”

“Yes I know, there was a thing about it in The Guardian.”

“Oh.  Well, promise you won’t ever buy me a yacht, it won’t make me happy.”

“I promise.”

I get followed into the ladies (which is, incidentally, the size of my entire flat and filled with marble plinths and silk-covered sofas) by one of the more insistent guests. He wants to back me against the wall and put his hand up my skirt, I want to pee. Luckily he’s distracted by the sound of one of the other girls getting a stiff shagging in a cubicle. I whisper in his ear, “Why don’t you go and join in? I know she’d like it…” And his moment of temptation gives me the chance to slip away into the gents, from where I can hear the indignant shouting. I can’t believe we’ve got a whole week of this!

Valley of the Dolls

The weekend starts here! And I’ve begun as I mean to go on, lying on the sofa blowing my nose and watching Scandalous Me: The Jacqueline Susann Story on daytime TV. Jacqueline Susann wrote Valley of the Dolls which was my very favourite book when I was 12. It seemed terribly glamorous and sordid and grown up. How I longed to be plucked from the chorus and sleep my way to the top, acquiring a devastating barbiturate habit and an abusive husband who would put me in a sanatorium which prescribed electro-convulsive treatment. So much better than the girls in Swallows & Amazons, who seemed to spend all their time cooking scrambled eggs over campfires and then doing the washing-up. I was pleased to discover from the film that Jacqueline Susann had a lesbian affair with Ethel Merman. Both women have gone up in my estimation as a result.

I have a miserable cold as a result of lying on the ground in the cold yesterday and my bruised hip is stiff. I fended D off with a scrunched-up pillow this morning and warned him not to even think about sex until at least Monday. This is like telling someone not to blink.

He phones me after work from outside a noisy pub.

“The pub is full of nurses – it’s all boobs and bums and easy availability after another couple of drinks. So out of respect for you I’ve come outside, out of temptation’s way.”

“So, nothing to do with having to stand on the pavement if you want a fag?”

“Absolutely not.  The fact that I’m smoking a fag while talking to you is purely coincidental.”

“Can I take it you won’t be going back into the pub when you’ve finished your fag?  Out of respect for me.”

“Only to return my glass.”

“That’s a shame.  Because I was going to suggest you take advantage of my temporary incapacity to find a couple of the most pulchritudinous and drunk nurses and shag the arses off them. Everyone knows nurses go like trains and they’re really, gynaecologically dirty. Just think how much fun you could have had for the price of a bottle of pub Chardonnay. Still, I can see now that your respect for me would prevent you from doing that.”

“Well great.  Now I can’t go back in the pub until my erection’s gone down.  Thanks for that, it’s freezing out here.”

“My pleasure.”

More About Bicycles

My poor knees! I fell off my bicycle on Parkland Walk, which is a path and cycle route along what used to be the railway line from Finsbury Park to Alexandra Palace. This is normally one of the easiest cycle routes I ever do and as far as I can see I was ‘derailed’ by a small stone (either that or it was the gypsy curse on Alexandra Palace). I’ve got gravelly scrapes on my hands and knees and a bruised hip.

I lay on the ground and had a little cry until it got too cold to go on being miserable and then I wheeled my bike back to the old Crouch End Station, which is now just a couple of overgrown platforms. I sat on the edge of one and ate some toffee.

When D came home he sniffed me curiously.  “Mmm, you smell of antiseptic you minx, you know that’s my favourite…”

The corners of my mouth twitch but I refuse to giggle because I’m angling for sympathy and maybe getting out of cooking dinner. I start to tell him the story. He starts to peel off my jumper.

“You’re not even listening!”

“I’m sure you’re story’s very interesting and even tragic but, joking aside, I do actually have a raging hard-on and I’m planning on planting it firmly in your cunt.”

“You can think again, Mr Bedside Manner!” I give him a little shove, he slips his fingers under my bra straps and yanks them down over my shoulders, my tits bouncing free.

“You’re the one who’s not listening Lucy, what did I say?”

He spins me round and bends me over the kitchen table.

“I’m not saying it.”

He slides his arms round my waist, fumbling with the zip of my jeans while I wriggle crossly.

“I’m NOT SAYING IT!”

He tugs my jeans and knickers down until they’re stretched across my thighs and gives my arse a hard swat with the flat of his hand. Then he gently strokes my bum, sliding his hand lightly over the bruise on my hip then slipping a finger into my pussy. It sinks in easily and he draws it out, dripping, leaning over me to rub the evidence of my arousal across my lips, forcing his finger into my mouth.

“What did I say, Lucy?”

“That you were going to fuck me.”

“You want to get fucked, don’t you Lucy?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you say?”

“Please.  Please fuck me.”

He hooks two fingers inside my cunt, frigging me with sharp little stabs then smearing my juices on his cock as I strain to peer over my shoulder. For a moment the head of his cock presses firmly against my pussy lips then he jams it into me hard, making me grunt. The table rocks and creaks as he fucks me and I picture it collapsing and us falling, sprawled on the floor, me still impaled on his cock, the weight of him landing on top of me driving it deeper into my cunt. Like something from a comic book, the final panel a drawing of us, eyes bulging, me yelping as his cum fountains from my open mouth. I start to laugh and he pulls out, slapping my bum again as he walks around the table and feeds me his cock. I wrap both hands around it, chafing it as I suck on its head, flickering my tongue across it and still laughing as he cums, shooting his spunk deep into my throat.

Still bent over the table, I gently lick and suck his cock while he examines my grazed hands.

“You can’t cook dinner like this, I’ll do it.”

Result!

He lets me do my jeans up but keeps me sitting at the table with my bra tugged down and my tits on display all through dinner.

Public Indecency

Today was my lunch date with Andy the policeman. We go to The Blue Posts in Soho, a pub straight out of an episode of The Sweeney. It’s dark, cramped and sleazy and it smells of stale beer. I love it. Andy points out a few people he’s arrested over the years.

After the first drink he admits that he recognised me yesterday and has seen my blog. I’m a bit surprised that gay men read my blog (no reason why they shouldn’t, it just hadn’t occurred to me that they would). He laughs and says, “You were taken to casualty in a leopard-skin bikini after a gardening accident! You’re a camp icon!”

Well if he’s read all my sordid secrets I want to know some of his. I ask him what’s the most outrageous thing he’s ever done. And I learn a new phrase to add to yesterday’s: ‘Driving a Train’. Somehow I suspect everyone in the world except me knows about this, but here goes anyway. ‘Driving a Train’ is when one man fucks another in the arse, while being fucked by another man, who is being fucked by another man, who is being…you get the idea. It sounds like a demented party game…no, it sounds like a world record attempt on Record Breakers! I get a fit of giggles as I imagine them all rutting away while Roy Castle tap dances and sings ‘Dedication’s all you need…’ (Non-UK readers tune out here, it was a children’s TV programme that in real life rarely featured gangs of fornicating homosexuals).

After another drink we’re comparing cock-sucking techniques. I count off on my fingers my top tips for deep throating while he wears a mock-serious expression and writes them down on a beer mat.

(1) Thoroughly lubricate his cock.
(2) Tilt your head.
(3) Stretch your tongue out as far as possible
(4) Don’t relax – this is where I went wrong for a long time - make as though you’re going to yawn.
(5) Take a deep breath.
(6) If you start to gag, don’t pull back.  Try to stay still until the gag reflex subsides.
(7) As the head of his cock enters your throat you’ll feel some resistance. Stretch your tongue out again then draw it back in, pulling his cock in with it.
(8)  When he’s all the way in, swallow.  The muscles of your throat will massage his cock.
(9) Stretch your tongue out again and lick his balls.
(10) Until you’re used to it, make sure you’re in a position where you’re in control. When you’ve had some practice, let him get on top so he can watch your neck bulge as he slides his cock in.

He waves the beer mat at me.  “I think that’s enough evidence to charge you with being a cocksucking little madam.”   

He tells me about his friend who was rushed to hospital with severe abdominal cramps and had half a pint of spunk pumped out of his stomach. I try to do the maths in my head but can’t imagine how many cocks make half a pint. “Was he celebrating a special occasion?” “No, it was just a Tuesday.”

I’m enthralled and would happily spend all afternoon prising outrageous stories out of him, but it’s time to get back on the streets. He offers me a lift home at the end of the day and turns up in the back of a police car being driven by his colleagues who are in uniform. They accompany me to the front door and ring the bell. D answers, completely unfazed that I am being returned home in police custody. He sighs and says wearily to the officers, “Was it public indecency again?”

Angry Dragons

A man barged into me today and then complained that I had tried to assault him. He is around 6 foot 4, I am 5 foot 3. I hug my clipboard to my chest, knuckles white as I make an effort to breathe deeply and stay calm. He attracts the attention of a police officer who crosses the street. The police officer sees a red-faced angry shouty bloke towering over a small girl in a Christian Aid t-shirt and draws an obvious conclusion.

“Are you parked near here sir?”

“Yes I am, not that it’s any of your business.”

“Well can I suggest you nip off back to your car quickly before my mate gives you a ticket?”

He splutters a bit and makes a point of noting the police officer’s number but he leaves fairly smartly. 

The police officer is my new best friend and I stand on tip toes to give him a kiss. His name is Andy and he stays to hear all about the campaign and fills in a postcard for us to send to his MP. We have a lunch date tomorrow. Before accepting, I feel I should point out that I have a boyfriend. He says that’s okay, so does he.

Coming home, I have to climb over the boxes in the hall. My one box full of stuff for the charity shop, started in a fit of guilt last night, has now turned into three, though I’m not sure what Help the Aged are going to make of the articulated skeleton. D explains it’s not actually for the charity shop, he’s going to advertise it for sale on the medical school notice board. I’m relieved frankly, it’s just been taking up space in the wardrobe.

We have a ‘carbon neutral’ evening playing Scrabble by candlelight in the kitchen. D gets ‘quim’ on a triple word score which is 45 points, followed by ‘felching’ on a double which scores 34. Neither of these words is in my dictionary. I look up ‘felching’ afterwards on Wikipedia and I’m very sorry I did – there’s another mental image I’m scarred by.

Here’s a couple more phrases from the great Wiki that were new to me. I won’t be doing these any time soon but feel free to enjoy them in the comfort of your own home.

Angry Dragon (n.) Ejaculating in someone’s mouth and then hitting them in the back of the head, forcing the cum out of their nose so that they look like an angry dragon breathing fire.

Donkey Punch (n.) Having anal sex with someone and punching them in the back of the head to make them pass out. Said to induce a clenching of the anal sphincter in the unconscious person.

Angry

I stand in Regent Street with a t-shirt on over my sweatshirt. The t-shirt says, ‘I am radioactive, do not approach me or even look in my direction.’ No it doesn’t, it says ‘Christian Aid’ but it has the same effect.

I’m not working this week. Instead, a little gentle pressure from my Dad has got me stopping people to ask them to lobby their MP about the Climate Change Bill. The current Bill calls for a 60% cut in UK carbon emissions by 2050. Christian Aid is one of a number of charities calling for this target to be 80%.

The people I try to stop are wearing t-shirts that say, ‘I am the only important thing in my world.’ No they’re not, but they might as well be. In fairness, they don’t all brush past me with their heads down, some of them have something to say for themselves.

“I’m not interested in politics.” (No, but I bet you’re a fucking weasily little complainer when everything in the entire world doesn’t go your way. I bet you think the government should do something about it.)

“We had floods in Oxfordshire and no one was interested in signing petitions for us.” (I know, it’s awful, my brother’s house was flooded and it’s still not dried out properly but no one in North Oxford died and I didn’t notice him starving to death or dying of dysentery.)

“It’s all very well calling for lower carbon emissions but what about the effect on British jobs, hmm? You haven’t thought about that, have you?” (Fair point, I promise to mention it to the hundreds of thousands of East Africans currently flooded out of their homes - their jobs, livelihoods and families all gone with no prospect of a return to their old way of life ever - just as soon as they come streaming down Regent Street.)

I feel very bleak by the end of the day. A lot of the time I’m no different from those arrogant shit-for-brains. I have a houseful of stuff – the result of endless, pointless, bored and petulant shopping trips. I’ve got a car I was handed for doing nothing more spectacular than staying alive for eighteen years (not spectacular here, more impressive in, say, Uganda). I have a boxful of electrical stuff I haven’t even bothered to unpack because I just don’t need it. I leave my television on stand-by and get plastic bags every time I go to the supermarket to buy organic vegetables that have been flown half-way round the world for dullards like me.

On the way home I do something very uncharacteristic. I go to mass. I sit in the back of the church and watch creaking, elderly pensioners struggle up from their knees to totter into the confessional and tell their sins to a lonely priest and for the first time I think I understand what this is about. I haven’t been to confession since I was nine. I stopped going because (a) I’d always been taught that prayer was a way of talking directly to God, so why did I suddenly need to go through a priest if I wanted to apologise for something and (b) when you’re nine you haven’t done anything worth confessing, so I used to make things up which struck me as missing the point. See what a smart arse I was when I was nine.

But now, I want to go into the confessional and tell the priest, “I’m angry.” That’s a good Old Testament sin. This church judges me – for my lifestyle, my liberalism, my belief in my rights and the rights of others. None of those things are sins, they hurt nobody. But run the washing machine on a high temperature, turn the thermostat up, take the car to the shops and across the world a mother gives her children poisoned flood water to drink because there’s nothing else and she needs to fool them that their bellies are full. That’s what sin means.

I slink out before confession is over because I have too much to say.

I’ve been trying to remember the name of the father who publicly forgave the IRA men whose bomb killed his daughter. As I trawled through the net, randomly typing ‘Derry’, ‘Omagh’, ‘Enniskillen’ trying to find him, up popped the results, a few words encapsulating anger and grief. “Will never forgive…” “Struggle to forgive…” “How can we ever forgive…?” His name was Gordon Wilson and his daughter Marie was killed in 1987 when the Provisional IRA bombed the Remembrance Day service in Enniskillen. When the press, ghoulish as ever, asked him what he thought of his daughter’s killers, he said that he forgave them and would pray for them every night. Years later he was asked how he could bear to do this and he explained that forgiveness isn’t something you do and then it’s over with, it’s something you do every day. Every day for the rest of his life he woke up and decided that today he would forgive his daughter’s murderers.

And as I think about it now, that seems to be the point of confession. It’s not, as the Protestants would have it, ‘At it today, sorry tomorrow, at it again the day after’. Rather it’s about striving and the belief in perfectibility. Confessing to the way we feel will not make us perfect and we will not live in a perfect world but we can choose to believe that it can be made better by our striving. And when we fall back into our old ways, we can recognise it and choose to start again. If Gordon Wilson can decide to set his anger aside then I certainly can. So I’ll be back tomorrow, with my t-shirt on over my sweatshirt and if one person listens then I will not go home angry.

Tomorrow: Lucy struggles with concepts of nothingness and being and offers her critique of Hegel’s speculative reasoning.

If you’d like to lobby your MP to press for a higher target for the reduction of carbon emissions, please go to the Christian Aid website and click on the link on the front page that lets you email your MP directly.  You do not need to know your MP’s name to do this. 

Christian Aid helps people of all denominations and none. They do not engage in missionary work and are not party political. They have one of the lowest spends on administration costs of all major charities.

Porn

Tea-time at Lynda’s house and I’ve made cake.  Lynda is very excited.

“It’s only lemon sponge…”

“Oh Lucy, forget about the cake for a minute.”

“Forget about cake?  Are you feeling alright?”

Lynda is feeling alright because she has found Greg’s secret stash of downloaded porn, in a folder called ‘Football Fixtures’.

“What were you doing reading about football?”

“Looking for his secret stash of downloaded porn, of course.  God you’re thick!”

First things first; I make a pot of tea and we settle down with big pieces of cake to watch. Just as Lynda clicks the first file I have a sudden lurching feeling. What if Greg’s into something sinister? Are we about to watch a Lithuanian teenager whose passport’s been taken off her get to know a Rottweiler rather better than she might have wished?

Don’t worry, there’s a happy ending, what Greg’s into is watching smiling German girls get absolutely drenched in bucket loads of cum. The German girls are very talented, they get fucked brutally hard by multiple cocks in all their holes, sometimes at the same time, sometimes letting a queue build up. But what they mostly do is open their mouths wide and take spurt after spurt of cum. They swallow it, they let it bubble up out of their mouths and drip down their chins. They kiss each other, letting trails of spunk drip between their lips, sometimes they spit it into each others’ mouths or faces. The men are fairly talented too and they’ve clearly been showing admirable self-restraint in the run-up to the filming because they shoot prodigious amounts of spunk into the girls’ eyes and up their noses and onto their tits.

We sit in silence and watch a girl drink cum from a wine glass and another lick it up off a plate. Another tips her head back and swallows the pipe of a funnel while a gang of men shoot their spunk into its bowl. Another lies on her back on the floor while maybe twenty men cum all over her body. Every time the camera zooms in on her face she smiles up at it through a mask of cum, her eyelashes gummed together.

After a while, Lynda stops clicking the files and sits looking at the screen, which is frozen in the final frame of an open mouth and outstretched tongue with a pool of spunk, dripping off its tip.

There’s a long pause.  I surreptitiously check whether the teapot’s still warm.

“Do you let D cum in your face?”

I start, guiltily.  “Um, well, sometimes yes…Do you let Greg?”

“Sometimes.  I’m not very keen on it though.  I never realised it was such a big thing for him.  Do you actually like it?”

Now I have no idea how to answer this. The real answer is that I’m idly considering wrapping the rest of the cake in a spotted handkerchief on the end of a stick and hitchhiking to Germany to see if they’ll give me a part in their next film. I sense this isn’t the answer Lynda’s looking for.

She’s so uninhibited in almost every other way, it seems a cruel irony that the thing she’s not keen on is the thing her wretched boyfriend’s obsessed with. We discuss whether she should talk to him about it – tell him she’s seen the films.

“Would you tell D if you’d seen his secret stash?”

I start to say, “Oh, I don’t think he’s got one…” and the words freeze on my lips. Oh for heaven’s sake, of course he has a secret stash of porn.

Back home, I tell myself I’m just going to check my emails but of course I open up D’s profile on the computer. It’s password protected.

Geisha Girl

A little while ago, my stepmother gave me a beautiful 1970s Celia Birtwell wrap-around silk dress that’s been burning a hole in my wardrobe, waiting for the right occasion. For some reason I just look at it and think ‘geisha girl’. Today its moment came. D should have been in work but thanks to an outbreak of food poisoning at the hospital (oh, the irony) everyone’s shifts have been changed so he’s at home today and then back on nights. An unplanned-for day off always calls for sexual shenanigans.

D is banished to the supermarket with instructions to buy sushi and not come back for at least an hour but no actual explanation of what’s going on. While he’s out I run round the flat like a mad thing. I close all the shutters and curtains and light an entire bag of tea light candles all over the place. I even dig out some incense from the bottom of a box and waft it around. Then I get myself ready. I centre part my hair and tie it up in two plaits, high on each side of my head, each curled round in a loop and tied with multiple ribbons. I powder my face to a blank smoothness, powdering over my lips then colouring them with a smudge of red – a scarlet thumbprint – in their centre. False eyelashes make my lids droop.

I tie the dress around me. It has a deep plunge neckline and when I walk the skirt parts in a flash of thigh. I wear it with my green platform sandals that came from Help the Aged – the closest approximation of Japanese Geta sandals I can manage in a hurry. One final touch, false fingernails, applied last because of the awkwardness of doing anything while wearing them. They’re nearly an inch long and painted blood red. I’m ready.

D is immediately suspicious. I hear him open the door and stop in the hall, taking in the row of tea lights along the floor and the scent of incense. I sit very straight on a wooden chair in the bedroom, feet planted side by side, hands folded in my lap, head demurely lowered. Suddenly I panic and think, ‘please don’t laugh, please don’t think it’s funny’. He opens the bedroom door and looks at me, perfectly serious.

In the darkened bathroom filled with flickering candles I kneel by the side of the bath and bathe him, washing his hair and scrubbing his back with my sleeves trailing in the water. He leans back and lets me shave his chin then soaps my hands and wraps them round his cock, jerking it slowly as it stiffens. As he stands to step out of the bath his cock is briefly level with my face and I softly kiss its tip, leaving a shadow of scarlet lipstick on it.

Back in the bedroom I spread towels on the floor in front of the fire for him to lie on, a pillow propped under his hip bones for comfort, his head resting on his arms. I shrug off my dress and pour oil into my palms, letting it drip from my fingertips onto his spine and making him jump. Straddling his back I lean forward and begin to stroke my hands up his spine and over his shoulders, pressing hard with my thumbs, feeling him stretch and relax beneath me. I knead his shoulders and neck, lift his arms one at a time, gently pulling on his fingers until his knuckles crack. He squirms and sighs as I run my hands down his sides and massage his buttocks with swift little chopping motions using the sides of my hands. I think about sliding a finger inside his arse but take a look at the fingernails and decide against it. Instead I knead the backs of his thighs then bend his legs at the knees, stroking and rubbing his feet while he turns his head to look back at me. I tug gently on each toe, cracking the joints, and then suck on his big toe, swirling my tongue around it, fluttering and nibbling, letting it pop from my mouth and then pressing my lips back down over it. He groans and whispers, “Oh God, Lucy, oh fucking hell…” The corners of my mouth twitch but I stay in character. No grinning for geisha girls. I turn my attentions to his other foot.

Rolling him onto his back, I move the pillow to below his head. I can feel him watching me but I still keep my eyes shyly lowered. Of course this means I’m looking at his cock, which is flushed purple and angry-looking, bobbing and twitching, his balls tight and swollen. I straddle him again, sitting on his cock, rubbing my pussy along its shaft while he groans, his hands behind his head now. I sweep my hands across his brow, pressing my thumbs across the bridge of his nose and his eyebrows, cupping my hands behind his head and lifting it off the pillow, circling it and stretching his neck gently. I trickle more oil on his chest and rub it in slow wide circles until his chest hair is slick and glistening.

I bend, gasping as the tip of his cock bumps against my swollen clit, and kiss his nipples, sucking them and nipping them between my teeth. Suddenly he jerks one knee up, tipping me off. With a squeak I land on my bottom and he rolls over me, grabbing my ankles and lifting them high in the air, bending me double. Slowly he slides his hands down to my thighs, parting them wider and digging his fingertips into their soft flesh. With a sigh, he eases his cock into my cunt, letting go of my thighs and lying on top of me, crushing me beneath his weight as he disposes his arms and legs around me, braced against the floor. My cunt squelches as he starts to fuck me and my hands slide across his body as I try to get a grip on him. He freezes, eyes screwed shut, his breathing tight and shallow, trying not to cum too soon, trying to make it last. I cup his face between my hands and make eye contact for the first time. I whisper, “I want it now” and with a snarl he starts ramming his cock into me, our bodies slapping together as I gasp, his cock jerking and spraying me full of his spunk.

We eat the sushi with chopsticks sitting on the floor. D spreads my pussy open with his fingers and dips each piece in my dripping cunt. Sometimes he feeds the sushi to me, sometimes he eats it himself.

D takes the sash from my discarded dress and with one end ties my wrists together behind my back, then with the other end he ties my ankles to my wrists until I’m bent, my back arched in a bow, my limbs aching numbly. Gripping my plaits and kneeling up on the bed beside me, he guides my head towards his cock, manipulating it so I can lick and suck his cock and balls. In contrast to the discomfort of the bondage, he’s gentle with me, stroking my face not fucking it, talking to me quietly as I moan into his shaft. My limbs grow heavy and they tingle as he rocks me, tugging at my plaits as his cock slides in and out of my open mouth and I press my lips tightly round it, wriggling my tongue stud against its underside. He pulls his cock out, a trail of saliva hanging between its tip and my tongue, and cups my chin. “I’m going to cum in your face,” he says quietly. It’s not a question so I tip my head back, my eyes closed, lips parted, listening to the sound of his hand stroking his cock, gasping as his spunk splashes across my cheeks, stinging as it spurts into my nose.

As his cum dries on my face he sprawls on the bed beside me watching me as he busies his fingers between my thighs. I cum quickly and sharply, squealing as my twitching body sends pins and needles of pain coursing through my arms and legs. He unties me and I slowly uncoil until I’m lying on my tummy on the bed. His fingers are inside my cunt now, his thumb circling my throbbing clit. He takes his time, slowly bringing me to the brink then stopping – not removing his fingers, just keeping them perfectly still until he judges he can start again – tormenting me with the possibility of orgasm. I forget about my aching body and think only about my clit and his fingers playing with it, toying with me until I start to plead, muffled by the bedclothes I bury my face in. “Please let me cum, please, oh please, I need it so much, I want it so much, oh god please, please, please…”

He rubs harder, pinching the sensitive tip of my clit between his fingers as he rubs. I bite on the bedclothes, clawing at them, spreading my legs wider and pushing my bottom up in the air, lifting my cunt towards his fingers. Inside my head I can hear my inner voice, “Please don’t stop, don’t stop you bastard, don’t stop…”

I cum screaming, gasping it out, my body twisting and shuddering, my clit pulsing and insistent, mimicking my pounding heart. 

We lie side by side facing each other and he slides his hand between my legs. “One more,” he whispers. I bite my lip, whimpering as he pinches my clit hard, rolling it between his finger and thumb, bullying it to orgasm. I yelp into his mouth as we kiss, sucking hard on his tongue as the sharp, painful orgasm makes my body spasm. He laughs, still kissing me and pulls my thigh towards him, wrapping it round his waist until his cock digs into my belly. I slide my fingers round it, it’s semi-hard and twitches as I touch it. Wrenching myself away from the kiss, I slide down his body and hungrily swallow his cock, gobbling it down and noisily slurping at it until it’s stiff and quivering. Then rolling onto my back, I tug gently on his cock, pulling him towards my open pussy, wrapping my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck and rocking him gently in and out of my hot, sticky, tight, slippery cunt.