Lucy's Bedroom

Not Entirely Gay

Today did nothing for my dignity.  I got my nipple trapped in a filing cabinet.  Shut up, shut up, it’s not funny! 

I was leaning against it, talking to Craig, who works on the next bank of desks, while he was getting something out of the top drawer. Then he slammed it shut, pinching my nipple in the side of the drawer. I let out a yelp, hopped back and clutched my left breast dramatically. “What’s wrong? What’s the matter?” he said, anxiously. Well, it was too late to pretend he’d stood on my foot.

Catching on, he took my hand and bundled me into the ladies loos and started unbuttoning my shirt. I was a bit startled but then realised he was telling me a story about how a one-night-stand had once got his nipple ring caught on the duvet and pulled it out, so he knew all about nipple trauma. That’s okay then. Everyone shows their nipples to gay men in the loos at work, don’t they?

We have a good peer. It’s a bit pinker than normal, but everything looks okay. Someone starts talking outside the door and I panic and pull him into a cubicle. The talker goes away and Craig whispers, “What did you do that for, you mad cow?”

“I panicked.  I thought it would look suspicious.”

“Oh and this isn’t suspicious?”

“An intern and a gay man having a private conversation in the ladies?  No, I see nothing suspicious in that at all…”

Grinning, he leaned over and kissed me.  “Not entirely gay, dearie.”

Fishnets

I have a tights crisis this morning. I don’t think I’ve ever in my entire life been able to wear a pair of tights more than once. I always ladder them or stick my fingers through them (I probably shouldn’t spend so much time hastily and guiltily fumbling them back up again, I suppose). Anyway, this morning I have no ordinary tights for work, only (a) pink and black stripy tights (b) black seamed stockings with sequins at the heel (c) black fishnets left over from the Bunny Girl costume. I take a deep breath and put on the fishnets. Maybe it won’t be too obvious.

Oh, who am I kidding, everyone stares. The postman whistles, some men in a white van go, “Oi, darlin’!” and the man next to me on the train stares at my knees while pretending to read The Times. There’s a French movie called Claire’s Knee in which a diplomat becomes obsessed with touching some bit of jailbait’s knee (yes, I know, only the French…) and, having recalled this, I struggle not to start giggling, especially when I decide to cross and uncross my legs a few times, just to stop his attention wandering.

During the course of a slightly dull afternoon, I pass the time with a little daydream in which we do this every morning, me hitching my skirt fractionally higher, just to let him know I’m doing it on purpose, until finally one morning our eyes meet and instead of going to our respective offices we decide, without speaking, to book into a hotel where he rips a hole in my fishnets, fucking me through them and then we lounge about smoking cigarettes and staring moodily out of the window in a very French way.

But then, walking past the coffee machine, a knot of gossiping men snicker as I go by so I find an excuse to walk back and get a coffee from the machine. “Ooh, are you telling jokes? Do tell me.”  And the spell is broken.

Humping

We have a proper early-morning hump this morning. There’s no finesse involved in early-morning humping, just fumbling and grunting then D plugs himself in and grinds away, while I wrap my arms and legs around him, biting his shoulder and rubbing my cheek against his stubbly chin. The alarm clock goes off and I bat it onto the floor where it winds down, sadly. D groans and rolls off me, asleep before his head hits the pillow. I lie watching him, my limbs still splayed across the bed, spunk oozing from my pussy.

I elbow him sharply in the ribs.  “The house is on fire!”

“Mmplfm”

“Your parents are here.  I invited them and forgot to tell you!”

“Zzzzzzz”

“Oh my God, I’m pregnant!”

“Hmmph…is it mine?”

“It might not be.  I got gang raped by the trolls that live under Blackfriars Bridge.”

“Were they any good?”

“Yes, they all had 10 inch cocks and none of them fell asleep before making sure I’d cum.”

Sleepily, D rolls over, slowly reaching out an arm to hook around my waist…and then suddenly drags me, squealing and kicking, out of bed. We lie on the floor, breathing hard, D braced on top of me. The cat walks over and sits next to us, watching with feigned indifference.

“Play with your clit, wank yourself off, I want to watch you cum.”

He inhales my hair and along my neck and chin, breathing on my skin, almost touching it with his lips, whispering in my ear, “Trolls, eh?” and making me giggle as I circle my clit with the tip of one finger. He never looks down to watch what I’m doing but keeps looking me in the face, brushing against it, grazing my chin with his teeth.

As I feel my clit throbbing, my orgasm rising, I tip my head back a little and close my eyes. 

“Open your eyes, look at me.”

I flutter them open a little, breathing hard now, my fingers rubbing faster, pinching and rolling my clit. I turn my head to one side.

“Look at me, Lucy.”

Slowly I turn my head back, struggling to keep looking at him, wanting to close my eyes and be lost in my orgasm. With a loud gasp I start to cum sharply, still gazing right into his face, my hips arching and my bum slapping down onto the floor again as it pulses through me.

He grins down at me, panting and dishevelled beneath him, then springs up and out into the bathroom. I lie where I am and consider staying there all day. I can hear the shower going. I reach out and scratch the cat’s chin. She shuts her eyes, happily and I say, “What are you looking at?”

Fires And Drownings

I happily stumbled upon Postman’s Park today.  You’ve seen Postman’s Park if you’ve seen the film Closer but I didn’t know where it was until today. It’s a small park made out of the churchyard of St Botulph’s by Angel Street and it has a wall lined with glazed ceramic tiles that celebrate the lives of ordinary people who died trying to save others.

Elizabeth Boxall aged 17 of Bethnal Green who died of injuries received trying to save a child from a runaway horse, June 20 1888.

Henry James Bristow aged 8, at Walthamstow on December 30 1890, saved his little sister’s life by tearing off her flaming clothes but caught fire himself and died of burns and shock.

Ernest Benning, compositor aged 22. Upset from a boat one dark night off Pimlico Pier grasped an oar with one hand supporting a woman with the other but sank as she was rescued, August 25 1883.

Thomas Simpson died of exhaustion after saving many lives from the breaking ice at Highgate Ponds, January 25 1885.

William Donald of Bayswater, aged 19, railway clerk, was drowned in the Lea trying to save a lad from dangerous entanglement of weed, July 16 1876.

Robert Wright, police constable of Croydon. Entered a burning house to save a woman knowing that there was petroleum stored in the cellar, an explosion took place and he was killed, April 30 1893.

George Lee, fireman. At a fire in Clerkenwell carried an unconscious girl to the escape, falling six times and died of his injuries, July 26 1976.

Sarah Smith, pantomime artiste. At Prince’s Theatre died of terrible injuries received when attempting in her inflammable dress to extinguish the flames which had enveloped her companion, January 24 1863.

What a lot of fires and drownings. It’s impossible not to wonder about these people. Why is there no age or occupation for Thomas Simpson, what sort of man was he? Who saw George Lee fall six times and why weren’t they able to help him? Did Mr and Mrs Bristow have any other children? And did they ever leave them alone in a room again?

And I wonder why these people were chosen? The Victorians shared a mania for collecting and categorising. Did someone patiently cut obituaries out of the newspaper and stick them in an album. Or was there some sort of appeal for nominations, a selection process?

I had a small pinkish pebble in my handbag – picked up off the beach in Wales a long time ago and carried around for luck or sentiment. I chose Samuel Rabbeth, medical officer of the Royal Free Hospital who tried to save a child from diphtheria at the cost of his own life, October 26 1884, and I left the pebble on the ground beneath his plaque.

Bunny Girl

Having been a minor hit on the North London gay party scene following New Year’s Eve’s triumph, I’ve been engaged to be ‘hostess’ at another party being thrown by one of Mark’s friends. This is a birthday party with a slightly puzzling Playboy theme. I thought this was a bit heterosexual for the audience, as I trussed myself up in the rented bunny girl outfit (an absolute nightmare of whalebone corseting, by the way, I don’t think I breathed out properly all night). But I understood a little better when the host changed into his Hugh Hefner ensemble of silk pyjamas and dressing gown with pipe and a number of nubile young men turned up (on hire) to dispose themselves about the jacuzzi. Ah, I get it now, I thought, it’s ironic. This is a world where everyone seems to have enough money not to have to do anything un-ironically ever again.

Those of you who’ve worn a bunny girl outfit will know that, apart from the corsetry, the biggest challenges are keeping your ears from falling off and managing a tight little smile and/or tinkling laugh every time someone squeezes your fluffy tail and makes parping noises. Despite the fetishisation of the bunny girl, it’s actually an extremely un-erotic get-up. For a start, you have to wear your fishnet stockings under your suit and then you have a series of hook and eye fastenings, not to mention starched collar and cuffs. Anyone who fancies giving you a quick tumble would face a challenge comparable to undoing nine bras one-handed in the dark followed by extracting a wriggling herring from a fishing net.

I did my best, tottering about with a tray of drinks and managing to keep good-humoured about the number of paper cocktail umbrellas that ended up poked into my cleavage. I could kind of see their point – with all that corsetry I had a lot of cleavage to poke them into. The first time I had to venture into the bathroom with drinks for the jacuzzi party, I knocked tentatively on the door. But after that first time I didn’t bother as it was clearly not a place for the socially inhibited. As a result, I’ve seen a number of things I had only previously seen on the telly (anyone else remember Queer as Folk?  I watched it with big eyes when I was about 11 or 12.  I’d never even heard of rimming).

At the end of the evening I lined up in the hall with the rent boys, waiting to be paid. “Shall we curtsey?” I whispered. “You can if you like,” replied one “I’m frightened that if I bend even a fraction there’ll be another cock up my hole before you can say George Michael.”

We stifled our giggles as Mark’s friend paid us (handsomely and in cash) and then came my favourite part of the night, walking home across London in the grey, cold dawn, in bunny ears, fishnets and a tightly-buttoned coat, listening to the rent boys’ stories about clients, their cocks and their peculiarities. I promised them a mention in my blog, so hello Dev, Marco, Sam, Paul and Luke.

The Circles Of Hell

I’ve been to Ikea. If Dante had lived in North London he would have made that the sixth circle of hell. In fact, I’ve just looked up the circles of hell and it seems the sixth circle was reserved for heretics who were trapped in flaming tombs. The second circle is where those overcome by lust ended up, their souls blown to and fro by a violent storm. So I’ll see you there. I must say, being blown for all eternity doesn’t seem much of a punishment for lust. No mention of what happened to all the lustful girlies. Presumably we’ll spend eternity on our knees with our mouths open doing the blowing. Anyway, I’m wandering from the point, which is that I’ve been to Ikea.

In a complicated and unnecessary manoeuvre, I dropped a suitcase on the bedside table and it collapsed in a shower of MDF dust. I’d seen some locker-style bedside tables that looked quite good in the Ikea catalogue but, as always, were complete rubbish when I saw them in real life. But having gone all that way and trudged so far across the car park I couldn’t come away empty-handed. So we now have a lifetime’s supply of wooden coat hangers, chocolate sardines and tea light candles.

I phoned D, who’s in Swansea on a course about early diagnosis of degenerative disease (because apparently that’s something junior doctors in A&E should be doing in between yanking broken glass out of people’s heads and sewing up gunshot wounds in 12 year olds).

“What are you doing?”

“I’m lying on the bed eating chocolate sardines, entirely surrounded by flickering tea lights. Later on I may re-hang selected items from the wardrobe on wooden hangers.”

“That’s nice.  I’m in the nurse’s home.”

“Of course you are.  Are you entirely surrounded by flickering nurses?”

“No, it’s just where they put us up.  I can see some nurses through their windows though”

“Ooh, are they doing anything exciting?  Pillow fights while dressed in baby-doll nighties?”

“No, they’re watching telly. You should know better than to say ‘baby-doll nightie’ to me on the phone. Now that’s what I’m thinking about.”

“I’m sorry.  Would it help if I took my t-shirt off?”

“Maybe a little.  In fact, just to be on the safe side, take your bra off too.”

“OK.  I’ll jiggle my titties a bit at the receiver.”

“Thanks.  Now lie flat and balance one of the tea lights on each of your nipples.”

This is very much easier said that done. The tea lights sit in tin cups that get hot and the molten wax spills over the edge if you tip them. Combine that with nipples being stiff, sticky-up things and I only succeed in balancing the tea lights near my nipples.

We talk on and I lie very still, my breathing slow, controlled as D tells me about his day. I’m desperate to move, to wriggle against the bed and I lift my head to peer down at my breasts, wobbling slightly as they rise and fall, the candlelight glinting off the pool of hot wax in each tin cup.

The cat jumps on the bed and I’m jolted, squealing as wax splashes across my breasts, snuffing one candle out. I pick the other one up quickly off the quilt and toss it onto the table. I slump back onto the bed with a sigh and pick at the cooling wax. My flesh underneath it is pink.

Learn To Cook With Lucy

The best part of a bottle of expensive olive oil wasted! And no spaghetti to show for my efforts! That’s what happens when you ask me to cook supper.

In my haste, I knocked it over and it sprayed in an arc through the air before, spilling onto the floor, so I got down on my hands and knees, ineffectually mopping it up. D came in to see what the noise was and found me, like a bad 1970s porn movie, crawling around with oil splattered all down my t-shirt which stuck to my skin. He dragged out a kitchen chair and sat down.

“So, not actually going to help, then?”

“No, I’ve come for the cabaret.”

I was too irritated by this to respond and tried to ignore him while I went on mopping. I had oil all over my hands and I leaned forward to wipe them on his jeans. He snatched hold of my wrists.

“Naked, now,” he said quietly. I stared at him for a moment then tugged my wrists away, my fingers fluttering at the hem of my t-shirt while I decided. Still a bit cross, I yanked my t-shirt over my head then rolled onto my back, arching as I slid my jeans over my hips and kicked them off. D stood up and picked up the bottle of oil, straddling my waist and looking down at me as I unclasped my bra and wriggled out of my knickers, flopping back onto the kitchen floor, my arms flung over my head, my knees drawn up, thighs parted slightly.

He held the bottle at an angle, making me wait, then slowly, slowly drizzled a little oil into the hollow of my belly button. It pooled there, spilling over and trickling over my hips and thighs, tickling as it went. He stretched his arm out, trickling a thin trail of oil over my ribs and around and over my breasts. A saucepan on the stove bubbled over. Without looking he reached across and turned it off.

Stretching further, he drizzled oil into the palms of my hands until it dripped between my fingers. I smeared my hands over my neck and shoulders then down across my breasts and belly, burying them between my thighs. I closed my eyes, listening to his ragged breathing as I slowly massaged the oil into my skin, kneading my tits and letting them bounce and flop onto my ribs, rubbing my belly in slow, lazy circles, smoothing the oil over my hips and thighs, mingling it with the juice dripping from my cunt.

He nudged me with the tip of his toe and I opened my eyes, smiling up at him. His face was solemn with concentration. I rolled over onto my tummy and spread my arms and legs wide as he drizzled oil across my shoulder blades and the small of my back, making me shudder. Suddenly he sloshed it onto my buttocks and I laughed, reaching back to rub and knead them, holding them apart as he crouched down to pour oil along their crack, wriggling as it slithered into my arsehole and dripped down my cunt.

With the bottle set aside, he tugged his clothes off urgently then dug his fingertips into my buttocks, kneading and massaging them, stroking them up my spine, turning and manhandling me as he let my oiled flesh slip between his fingers, smearing every inch of my body, rubbing it between my toes and behind my knees, across my face and into my hair. He slicked my hair back, twisting it into a knot.

I reached my hand out and wrapped my fingers around his cock, slowly circling its tip and pressing my fingers down his shaft, forcing it between them, over and over. He hooked one of my legs over his shoulder, leaning in, pressing me open as he hooked two fingers inside my cunt, rubbing insistently, his other hand squeezing my tits, sliding firmly up my neck, his thumb pressing between my lips as I sucked.

With eyes half-closed, licking and nibbling on his thumb, I mumbled “Fuck me.” He ignored me, arching his back and thrusting his cock through my fingers, his head back, his teeth bared. I bit his thumb. “Fuck me.” Shaking his head, he thrust faster. I tried to toss my head aside, slide his thumb from my mouth, but he gripped my cheek firmly and groaned as the first spurt of spunk splattered my belly. Pulling back sharply, he gripped my other thigh, lifting them both up bending me double as he pressed the tip of his cock against my arsehole, spraying cum on my thighs and buttocks and then, as I flinched and whimpered, shooting his last spurt into my arse.

He knelt back heavily, dropping my thighs and watching me sprawl. With two fingers, he spread the crack of my arse, opening my arsehole and letting his cum drip out onto his fingers. He leaned over me, smearing it on my lips then, with a wicked smile, kissed me quickly and said, “Dirty bitch. Clean all this mess up.”

A Finger In Every Pie

Today, Lucy and David review the movie Sweeney Todd.   

Lucy – it was really very gory, I can see why it’s an 18 certificate; I had to watch bits of it through my fingers.

David – I enjoyed it, but there weren’t any surprises in the plot. For instance, it was obvious from the start that (spoiler) was going to turn out to be (spoiler).

Lucy – Well it’s like a Victorian novel. There’s never any tension about the outcome but the interest is in the characters and how they get to where they’re going. It’s like how you know that Jane Eyre is going to marry Mr Rochester and that the alien attack is going to wipe out Middlemarch.

David – You know Lucy, a more suspicious boyfriend would accuse you of never having got to the end of Middlemarch. I like Helena Bonham-Carter when she’s playing mad women more than I like her when she’s being Edwardian and floaty. Don’t look at me like that, it’s not just about corsets!

Lucy – Some of it is though…

David – Actually the girl playing the daughter filled her corset rather better. But you’d have to put a bag on her head to avoid looking at that soppy little face.

Lucy – This is assuming you’re fucking her, though.

David – I always assume I’m fucking every woman I see.  That’s just how men are.

Lucy – The singing was fine – I like the way the trailer tried to disguise the fact that it’s a musical – but it’s really very listenable. And the look of London – all those gas-lit alleys and pestilent courtyards – that was fantastic. I agree with you about the soppy girl and her equally soppy suitor but I think they were ironically soppy. Musicals always have terrible sub-plots about young lovers, Shakespeare does too, and it’s hard to play that sort of thing straight anymore. Much better to say, ‘Look, this is basically a fairy tale and so here are the soppy sub-plot young lovers.’ So what do we think, do we recommend it?

David – Yes, it’s enjoyable in a bleak and nasty kind of way.  A good date movie.

Lucy – I recommend it too, though not for a first date, unless ‘repressed serial killer’ is the aspect of your personality you consider most romantically persuasive.

Waiting For Me

Nothing of interest happened at work today, unless you count me stapling my hair to an order form. This was not funny and I’d like to make it clear that all the people who laughed at me were wrong. Today’s inspirational lunch-box message from D reads ‘You have nicer tits than all my other girlfriends, including the ones I only got to imagine through their jumpers’. Really, someone should manufacture a calendar with these on.

In my lunch hour I hired a Playboy Bunny Girl outfit (yes, there’s a reason for this but you have to wait to find out).

I finished late today and D came to pick me up. In the midst of all of the City’s display of wealth – tailored suits, expense accounts and top-of-the-range luxury cars with room in the boot for a set of golf clubs, D sat hunkered down in his beat-up old car waiting for me. He was wearing a black woolly hat with a peak which I hadn’t seen before and when he spotted me approaching he grabbed the peak and whipped it down, unrolling it into a sinister balaclava. I laughed so hard I almost got run over; I’m not sure whether he looked more like a bank robber or my kidnapper. I asked him whether he wouldn’t rather I got into the boot.

“Nope, you’re fine where you are,” he said, tossing the balaclava onto the back seat, “but just hitch that skirt up a few inches.”

We drove home, D with his hand on my thigh, his fingertips digging in firmly and leaving faint, tender bruises. We parked in the dark street, outside our flat, and snogged, his fingers curled inside the wet gusset of my knickers, my hand rubbing his stiff cock through his jeans.

He broke away, switching on the radio and leaning back in his seat, one hand wrapped around the back of my neck as he pulled me across his lap. Wriggling awkwardly, I unzipped his cock, giggling as it sprang up and bounced off my chin. With both hands he brushed my hair back into a pony tail, holding it firmly as I started to nibble and lick the tip of his cock. A car hissed by, its headlights swinging across the roof of the car, briefly lighting us. But then everything was quiet except for the low murmur of the radio and my rhythmic sucking.

3.37 a.m.

D wakes me at…3.37 a.m.  Dear God, there is no such time!  Is the cat on fire?  No, D has an erection.

I complain that he always has an erection and will have just as much of one at breakfast time when I would have been awake anyway. It appears he’s had a particularly interesting dream (coupled, no doubt, with a full bladder and cheese before bed time and all sorts of physiological reasons) that means he absolutely must fuck NOW!

I want to know what his dream was about.  He bites my nipple and mumbles, “Fuck first, talk later.”

With a sigh I roll onto my back, still half-asleep, and part my thighs as he slithers down my body, kissing and nibbling my belly and hips, digging his teeth gently into the soft flesh of my inner thighs and licking wetly along my slit. I arch a little, digging my fingers into his hair, guiding his head as my pussy tingles and throbs, my clit swelling as he kisses it lightly. The tip of his tongue wriggles under the hood of my clit, striking its tip just right. My eyes shoot open and my mouth hangs open as I gasp out, “Yes! Oh, yes, just there! Oh, God, yesssss!” I cum in moments, lifting my head from the pillow to gaze in startled amazement down at him, still lapping at my cunt. Oh, shit, he’s right! Must fuck NOW!

I grab hold of his arms, hauling him back up my body, kissing and nipping at his chest and shoulder and neck. His cock prods the folds of my cunt a couple of times then slides in easily as he lowers his weight on me. I wrap my arms and legs around him tightly, hissing in his ear, “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me” in time with his thrusts, biting his earlobe and groaning as he slides his hands under my buttocks, lifting me off the bed and thrusting faster.

He kneels up, lifting me higher, my arms flopping over my head as I arch backwards, my tits jiggling and the bed squeaking. I throw one arm across my forehead, shielding my eyes from the glare of the bedside lamp as I look up at him, his eyes almost closed, face and neck tense and flushed. There’s a tight knot in my belly, a ball of energy throbbing, waiting to explode. I clench my teeth, turning my head to one side and burying it in the pillow as his cock rubs maddeningly at my g-spot, winding me tighter and tighter.

God, I love getting fucked! Did I mention that before now? I love that piece of gristle and muscle, swollen and hot and stiff, hammering into my sloppy cunt until it’s bruised and throbbing and swimming in salty, sticky spunk. I wish the world would stop turning and the sun wouldn’t come up tomorrow so we can stay here forever in our bed, entwined, impaled, feverish with lust.

He flops back on top of me, my thighs splayed wide. I dig my fingernails into his shoulder blades and he growls into my neck, still ploughing his cock into me, cradling my head in his hands as he roars and floods me with cum. I dig my feet into the mattress and arch against him, grinding my hips, screwing every drop of cum from his beautiful cock, shuddering as my orgasm ripples through me, pulsing in my belly and my limbs, my heart fluttering, pumping my blood erratically through every inch of my body.

He’s heavy and lifeless against me now, pinning me to the bed as sleepiness washes over him. I’m fluttery and awake, restless and stirred up. I want to wake him up and tell him that even when he’s being a selfish bastard and waking me up in the middle of the night he still makes me crazy. And I want to know what his dream was about.