Lucy's Bedroom

Sentient Plants That Look Like Giant Cocks

We manage to move into our new flat while speaking mainly through the removal men. “Tell him I want him to…” “Ask her if she’ll…” This isn’t going very well, boys and girls.

In the middle of everything, D’s friend James rings and asks cheerily how it’s going. I let out a great gulping sob and, speaking thickly through dripping snot, say “Oh God it’s awful I’ve fucked everything up and we’re not even talking and it’s a horrible, horrible mistake and now we’ve signed a tenancy for the next six months and we can’t stand the sight of each other and it’s all my fault, what are we going to do?”

James laughs and says, “Shut up you silly mare, you’re both just trying to sabotage it because it’s getting grown up. That’s why D’s being foul and you’re being an alley cat. Put the kettle on and start nagging him about painting the ceiling and it’ll settle down.”

I do the kettle thing and glance at the ceiling, which could do with painting but I decide against mentioning it straight away. Instead, I try a more oblique approach.

“So, new series of Doctor Who starts next week and the Sontarans are back, are you excited?”   

“Which ones are Sontarans?”

“The ones that look like potatoes.”

“Not the giant ants?”

“No, you’re thinking of the Zarbi.”

“So which ones were the giant crabs?”

“Tsk, they were the Macra, I explained this to you.”

“And the sentient plants that look like giant cocks?”

“Were the Vervoids.”

“And the Garm?”

“Was a big woolly dog that got karate kicked by Ingrid Pitt.”

“Wasn’t she naked in a tin bath at one point?”

“That was in The Wicker Man.  There’s surprisingly little bath-time nudity in Doctor Who.”

“Would it, in your opinion, be improved by bath-time nudity?”

“No, not really. If he was in the bath, The Doctor could just splash the Daleks and they’d suffer an electrical short circuit. It lacks dramatic impact.”

“You’re right.  So, where do you want to put your life-size cardboard cut-out Dalek?”

“Dunno, on the landing I suppose.”

“Lucy?  Lucy?  Are you thinking about David Tennant in his bath?”

“No.  Not really.  A little bit.”

I think we’ve got a way to go before things can truly be said to have settled down, but a conversation is at least a start. We were both dog tired last night but this morning, in our new bedroom with a view of treetops and blustery rain, I burrowed down under the covers to lick D’s cock, lapping at his balls and rolling them around my tongue, my fingers tightly wrapped around his shaft, my thumb circling the head of his cock. He stirred, blearily lighting a cigarette with one hand, the other hand lightly resting on my head as I swallowed him down, sloppily, messily sucking his cock, letting it slide from between my lips with a loud popping noise before greedily gobbling it down again, gulping down his cum and licking my lips.

I crawled out from under the duvet and he smacked my bum, unsmiling, said, “Cup of tea” and I obediently trotted off to stand in the freezing kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. By the time I came back with two mugs of tea he had fallen asleep again, so I climbed into bed next to him, rubbing my cold feet together and started waiting to see what’s going to happen next.

In Which Lucy Loses Her Moral Compass

Merry confusion reigns in the aftermath of clubbing. I think I’ve left my phone in Will’s bedroom only it turns out to be Lynda’s phone. I call my phone and say, “Hi, I left my phone in your bedroom last night, can I come and pick it up?” Only I’m not talking to Will, am I? I’m talking to D, to whom Lynda has given my phone, and whose voice I have completely failed to recognise when he answered. Meanwhile Adam has found Lynda’s phone but, having seen me with it last night assumes it’s mine and rings me at home, leaving a message on the answerphone that mentions my blog, my tits and the fact that I gave his flatmate a blowjob, all in the space of 20 seconds.

Lynda wants her phone back but is trapped in some tedious family event and so she leaves a message on my Dad’s answerphone that alludes obliquely to me giving Will a blowjob and asks me to meet Adam in Soho and get her phone off him.

Are you still following any of this? Shall I just cut straight to the bit where I have two large vodkas while I’m waiting for Adam to turn up, then another couple while I tell him the story of my day, then he pours me into a taxi and we go back to Shoreditch and spend the rest of the day fucking.

I’m such a louse.  I’ve got a boyfriend stitching up knife wounds and I’m out shagging my best friend’s casual revenge fuck.   

In Which Lucy Becomes A Z-List Celebrity

I’m supposed to be back at work now, but I’ve been given the rest of the week off to try to sort out the smoke-damaged flat. This turned out to be much easier than I expected. All I had to do was sit at the breakfast table looking miserable (a tactic from childhood called ‘face down in the marmalade’) for a few minutes before my Dad got tired of staring at my mopey little face and paid for someone else to do it. Everything’s being cleaned and at the end of the week we go to a warehouse to look at it all, we decide what to keep and what to chuck away and then it all gets delivered to our new flat. I love you, Daddy!

So now I have an unexpected week off – really, I should burn stuff down more often. I ring my friend Lynda who’s on half-term holiday to see if she wants to go shopping. Lynda turns out to be back at home too, having finally been dumped by the ever-unreliable Greg.

“He dumped you?  Not the other way round?”

“Oh, rub it in, why don’t you.”

I go round to see her and we spend the rest of the morning swimming in her parents’ pool. At this time of year, it’s covered over with a kind of mini geodesic dome to keep the heat in. The dome steams up on a cold day like this until we’re cut off from the world. Floating on our backs, staring up at rivulets of condensation running down the inside of the dome, we come up with our plan. It’s not a very complicated one and it doesn’t take us long to come up with it. “Let’s go out clubbing and get hammered.”

We spend the afternoon rounding people up. Some protest that you can’t go clubbing, even in London, on a Tuesday and we insist on proving them wrong. Someone says, “On a Tuesday? Where are you going, Boujis?” And just for a moment we think, “Shall we? Just for a laugh, shall we go to the worst, most overpriced and rudest club in London?

Sanity (or what passes for it) prevailed and we went to 93 Feet East in Shoreditch. This doesn’t really count as clubbing because on weeknights it doesn’t stay open late but they had free bands on and we all danced in a slightly embarrassing ‘your parents at a wedding’ kind of way.

With only half an hour until the club closed I became very concerned that this was Lynda’s ‘fuck Greg anyway’ night and yet she hadn’t snogged anyone unsuitable or even got particularly drunk yet. I bought her a triple vodka and lime and told her to scout the room for talent.

“Why, what are you going to do if I do see someone I like, go up to his friend and say ‘My mate fancies your mate’?”

“Yes, what about him, he’s nice.”

“He is nice, and you’re the devil.”

I took a slug of Lynda’s drink, adjusted my cleavage and started the long walk. You know how sometimes you only realise how drunk you are when you try walking in a straight line? They were laughing at me before I reached them.

“I didn’t think you were going to make it’”

Amazingly, my subtle scheme worked (maybe not so amazingly, we were two drunk girls in short skirts, how much harder do you have to try than that?) and so, having invited lots of people out, we very rudely ditched them all and went off with Adam and Will.

They turned out to live (as everybody in Shoreditch who doesn’t have a proper job seems to live) in a converted commercial building. The downstairs was a virtually derelict shop, the upstairs a jumble of achingly hip posters for club nights pasted to whitewashed brick walls and then partially obscured by retro lamps and horrible 1970s tat.

In the bathroom (the ceiling of which had been removed – not in an architectural way but just by bashing it with hammers so that you can look up into the attic), we repair our make up in the shard of broken mirror that’s been propped up against the wall and then covered with stickers. This isn’t easy, so you have to imagine us contorted into strange positions while we have this conversation.

Lynda: So, do you fancy yours?

Lucy: He’s nice looking.  Quiet though.  What do you think of yours now you’ve seen him in proper lighting?

Lynda: I think he’s very snoggable?

Lucy: Snoggable?  Is that all?

Lynda: No, that’s not all but I was saving your delicate ears from anything worse.

Lucy: And you realise you had to have three runs at getting that sentence out?

Lynda: He’s not going to want me to talk.  Is he?

Lucy: Nope.

Now, there’s a problem for girls who hunt in pairs (maybe it’s the same for men). If you both cop off then inevitably one of you will fancy theirs more than the other does. So one of you will tumble happily into the bedroom and get shagged silly, while the other will sit on the sofa making slightly awkward conversation. Guess which one I was.

After a few minutes (“Oh really, an art student? No, I’m on a gap year.”) I tell Will the story about Lynda getting dumped and me actually having a boyfriend and so I should really behave myself, though it might end up as a funny story on my blog, ha ha. Will asks me about my blog and I try to change the subject. It’s too late.

“Oh my God!  You’re that Lucy!  I read your blog!”

I smile inanely, thinking ‘Great, now he knows absolutely everything about me, how fabulous.’ Will runs into the hall and hammers on Adam’s door, shouting, “She’s Lucy from Lucy’s Bedroom!”

Lynda shouts back, “Yes she is, now bugger off.”

He starts asking me rapid-fire questions while I squirm with embarrassment. In the end, there’s nothing for it. I shut him up by sliding my hand onto his thigh and leaning in to kiss him. Our kiss breaks up into giggles as Lynda lets out a squeal from the next room. Will slides my hand up onto his cock and I unzip it, wriggling off the sofa and onto the floor to lap at it. He’s breathing harder now, watching me, his questions start up again.

“Do you really like getting spanked? You’ve done it with your friend in there, haven’t you? Do you like doing it with other women? Will you let me fuck you? Can I fuck you in the arse?”

I wrap my fingers round the shaft of his cock, sucking on its end and looking up at him. I pause, from wiggling the tip of my tongue into its slit and say, “No, what kind of girl do you take me for?” Then I plunge my mouth down over his cock, my cheek bulging as I start to suck harder.

Much later, the sun is coming up and I’m standing by the kitchen window drinking coffee and watching the lights go out in Brick Lane. Lynda trails out of the bedroom wrapped in a bedspread and stops to give me a hug and kiss me on the cheek.

There's A Riot Goin' On

So, I had my Dad’s house to myself this morning and I was happily amusing myself dancing round in my bra and knickers to Sly and the Family Stone while eating toast and Marmite when I became uneasily aware of being watched, because although I have the house to myself, there are three men in the garden cutting down a tree. In fact, technically, they’ve just tied some ropes to it and now they’ve stopped for a tea break but they are sitting in the garden watching me. I stop dancing and wonder what to do.

It occurs to me to ring my Dad and say, “There are some men in the garden cutting down a tree. Are they supposed to be doing that?” But I don’t, because what sort of a business plan would lead you to break into people’s gardens and cut down trees randomly without being asked? Clearly they’re meant to be there but Dad’s forgotten to mention it.

One of the workmen waves and I rather lamely wave back and then scuttle away to put some clothes on. By the time I come back, they’ve started up their chain saws and are speedily hacking branches off the tree under a shower of sawdust. I put the kettle on (it’s the law in England that all workmen must be filled with tea to capacity before being returned to the wild) and hurry to take steaming mugs of tea down the garden while the saws are still going, so I don’t have to have a conversation with them. They see me coming and switch off their saws, grinning happily.

“Thanks love, not everyone makes us as welcome as you have, do they?”

“That’s right.  It’s nice to be made to feel at home.”

“You don’t mind us.  Just carry on with whatever it was you were doing.”

Firemen With Enormous Dripping Hoses

When you’re a half-Jewish, Catholic-educated humanist, it can be difficult to know how to celebrate Easter. This year, I celebrated it by setting the kitchen on fire. I’m not really sure how I managed this. I was cooking lamb chops under the grill so I suppose a spit of fat caught fire. I’d left the room and when I came back in there were 2-foot flames licking the curtains. I tried smothering the fire with wet tea towels. They caught fire too. By this time, the plastic knobs on the cooker were melting and acrid smoke was making me choke. I shut the kitchen door and came hurtling into the sitting room, snatching up the cat and ignoring D. If he’d exhibited his usual level of curiosity about what I’m up to he’d have burnt to a crisp, but for a change he looked up over his newspaper and sniffed. “Whatever you’re cooking Lucy, I think it’s burning.” Temporarily reminded of his presence, I ran back into the room, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him out into the street.

The lady in the flat upstairs was out (or already rendered unconscious by smoke, I’ve only just thought of that, maybe I killed her) so we waited anxiously for the fire brigade who put the whole thing out in about 30 seconds then gave us a huge telling-off.

So now everything we own is covered in soot and smells of melted plastic.  I can still taste the smoke. 

We’ve been camping out at my Dad’s house, squeezed into my old bedroom. Because I’m very patient with him, I indulged D’s inappropriate sexual fantasies that were triggered by this by putting my hair in plaits and wearing knee-socks.

“Setting fire to the kitchen was very naughty, Lucy.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose…”

“And then you weren’t very hospitable when those firemen turned up waving their enormous, dripping hoses.”

“They were telling me off…”

“You know what I’m going to have to do, don’t you?”

“Let me off because I look cute in pigtails?”

“No, Lucy, try again.”

“Put my ankles over your shoulders and give me a lovely long pussy licking?”

“Well, that wasn’t what I was thinking of, but it’s a very good idea.  Last guess.”

“Um…is it a spanking?  It is, isn’t it, it’s a spanking.”

With my head buried in my pillow as I hugged it tightly, kneeling up with my bottom in the air, I wriggled and sighed as D slowly spanked me, gradually building up the stinging heat in my flesh until my bum glowed pink, stopping to stroke and pinch my bum and cup my pussy, slipping his fingers inside me and drawing them out sticky and wet. I shuddered, my moans muffled by the pillow as he circled and teased my clit, barely brushing his finger across its very tip.

“You’re so wet, you dirty little minx, look at me.”

I looked over my shoulder at D as he tugged on my pigtails.

“Tell me what you want, Lucy.”

“I want you to call the firemen back and tell them to bring their choppers and hoses with them.”

SMACK! 

He rubbed my bum again, curling his thumb into my arsehole and making me groan.

“What do you want, Lucy?”

“I want to ride your cock.”

D lay back, his hands behind his head, watching me straddle him and rub my slippery slit against the head of his cock, slowly sitting back onto it, impaling myself and squeezing him tightly inside me. I screwed him slowly, rubbing my clit and trembling, my tits bouncing as my bum slapped down against his thighs. He sat up a little, catching my nipples in his mouth and sucking on them, gripping my hips and starting to slam me down harder on his cock.

At the last moment he lifted me off his cock as it jerked and sprayed spunk across my belly and tits. I arched my back, letting it trickle down my body. D swept his hands across my skin, rubbing his spunk into it.

We slept, curled up and pressed tightly together in the narrow bed. In the morning, I half-woke as D wriggled against me, his cock prodding my bum. I grunted softly and D reached down, sliding his fingers into my slit and spreading my pussy lips, pressing the head of his cock into me and lightly biting my shoulder. I squirmed down onto his cock and…there was a tap at the bedroom door.

“Shit, it’s Dad.”

I started to pull away but D wrapped his arm tightly round my waist and kept me pinned in place on his cock. I pulled the duvet up under our chins.

My Dad brought us in two mugs of tea, pulled the curtains, chatted happily about the weather then bustled off downstairs again. I turned to look, wide-eyed, at D.

“That was very weird.”

Furious Girl

Now, I have as much of a sense of humour as the next submissive cumslut whore, but I really did lose my temper. D’s continuing attempt to actually kill me using only gaffer tape and orgasms saw me with my wrists and ankles taped, more tape across my mouth and the magic wand vibrator taped to my thigh, its head nestled between my pussy lips, its shaft trapped between my legs. I tried wide-eyed, silent pleading to no avail. And then when D put on his coat I tried furious wriggling and muffled screaming. He just kissed me on the forehead, said lightly, “Won’t be long, love” and flicked the switch as he left the room.

As D missed out on the intervening – I don’t know how long, maybe forty minutes – of squealing, jack-knifing trashing and sobbing, you do too. Come back and join me at the same time D does, strolling in from the pub. By this time I’ve wriggled off the bed and onto the floor but with my hands bound behind my back I can’t reach the wall-mounted switch and I can’t even sit up without driving the whirring head of the vibe against my painful clit. I’m drenched in sweat, shivering with it, my head throbs and the vibrations rattle my bones and teeth. My eyes are red and puffy with crying, my mouth is dry and my chest is tight and aching from panting. I’m fucked.

D grins and bends over me, slowly peeling off a corner of the tape across my mouth, then whipping the rest away, making me yell.

“Switch it off, you fucker!”  I want to hit him but I can’t and so I bang my head off the floor in rage.

“Not unless you ask nicely.”

“Do it you fucking dickhead!  Switch it off now, I’m not kidding!”

I squirm, trying to kick him with both feet tied together.  He scoots backwards, out of reach.

“Lucy, I don’t think you’ve learned anything from today’s lesson and…”

“SWITCH IT OFF!  SWITCH IT OFF!  SWITCH IT OFF!”

“Okay, okay, don’t yell…”

“UNTIE ME NOW!”

“I’m doing it, stop kicking me, I’m doing it.”

And so for a while, I lay on the bathroom floor, gaffer tape still round each wrist and ankle but untied now, my hands between my thighs, cupping my pussy, listening to D on the other side of the locked door, tapping gently and saying, “Lucy, Lucy, look, even if you won’t come out, please tell me what you’re doing…”

After a while I answered him. “I’m writing a manifesto for revolution. But I don’t have any paper or a pen.” After a moment, D slid a pad and a biro under the door and I sat cross-legged and wrote my 3 point manifesto:

1. We, the oppressed peoples of this bathroom, will absolutely fucking kill you if you leave us like that again.

2. While the greater social justice may be served by the people occasionally submitting to being wrestled to the ground and fucked in a manner not wholly compatible with informed consent, this will not in future serve as an excuse for the bourgeois oppressors to escalate such behaviour to the point that the people become a slave state.

3. There is no point 3.

I slid it back under the door and waited.  After a while, D slid it back again.  I read what he’d written.

‘I don’t want to fight…so I’ll accept your surrender. Come out here on your hands and knees and suck my cock like a good girl to show me how sorry you are.’

I’m open-mouthed with shock. I scream and kick the door, then hop around the bathroom for a bit, holding my foot. Then for a while I do drumming on the door and yelling, “I hate you, you bastard!” But gradually, the image of me crawling naked and humiliated out of the bathroom, with all my temper knotted up inside me, to suck on his cock starts to pulse away in the back of my mind. I lean my hot face against the back of the door and touch myself between the legs, feeling my wetness. I reach for the door handle and grip it hard, my arm braced, heart racing as I decide.

I’m gazing at the floor as I crawl out of the bathroom, but I sense D start up from where he’s been sitting on the floor until he’s on his knees, sitting back on his heels. I crawl towards him, brushing my cheek against his crotch, feeling his cock stiffen. He sweeps my hair back off my face, wrapping it round his fist and unbuttons his cock. It flops out onto my outstretched tongue.

“Look at me.”

I gaze up, my lips pressed tightly round the head of his cock, rubbing my tongue stud against the underside of his shaft. D smiles slowly.

“My furious girl.  My good girl.”

And he starts to fuck my face.

More Than Five

More rough stuff last night, bent over a kitchen stool, my toes skimming and scrabbling against the floor as I gripped the front legs of the stool with white knuckles.

“I wonder,” said D, leaning forward to bite my bum, “how many times I can make you cum before you pass out?”

Still wielding the vibrator and magic wand taped together, he fucked me, alternately grinding them against my cunt and ramming them in while I groaned and drooled helplessly against my gag.

After the first time I’d cum, he stood up and walked across to the fridge, sliding a magnetic number 1 by itself on the door while I watched him, still bent over and breathing hard. As he walked back, he smiled down indulgently at me and tapped my cheek sharply with his hand before spreading my cunt with his fingers and plunging the vibrator back in.

By the time the numbers on the fridge door read from 1 to 5, I had slithered off the stool and lay on the floor, curled up and snivelling. D sits forward in his chair, looking down at me, the vibrators gripped in both hands where I can see them.

“Has it all been a bit much, Lulu?”

I nod, my lips trembling as I start to cry.

“It’s not over yet, slut, get back on the stool.”

Shaking and hiccupping, I roll over onto my hands and knees and haul myself up over the stool, hair plastering my wet cheeks. D laughs and slaps my arse hard.

“Good girl!  Last one.”

My clit is so over-stimulated that the lightest touch of the wand makes me squeal and flinch. He torments me, brushing it across my swollen flesh, barely touching it until my legs are trembling uncontrollably and I yell, “Oh fuck, just do it! Just do it! Please just do it!”

The vibrators clatter to the floor and D digs his fingers into my hips, jamming his cock into my sloppy, swollen cunt, fucking me hard until the stool’s teetering and rocking, grunting as he shoots inside me and slapping my arse as he slips out.

I slither back to the floor, shivering. D prods my bum with his toe and I peer up at him. “Going to take more than five, I see. Have to work you harder next time.”

Not The Act Of A Well-Behaved Girl

Yesterday’s only partially-consensual quickie before work clearly set D thinking. He sent me a text. ‘Fancy a bit of rough stuff?’ I was on the point of sending a reply that read ‘What did you have in mind, big feller?’ when I stopped. It’s not the act of a well-behaved girl to ask questions. I deleted my reply and instead just wrote ‘Yes’. My thumb hovered over the send key as I sat, tense and excited at my desk. I could be agreeing to anything. My boss has a dog-eared paperback stuffed in his desk called Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway. I pressed ‘send’.

Naked and gagged, I tipped forward, wobbling as I slowly stood on my head, my arms bent and braced as I stretched my legs up, straight and together, until my toes pointed at the ceiling. D stepped forward, circling my waist with his arm. Sweat was already breaking out on my forehead as my arms trembled, my neck stiff and my back beginning to ache.

“Spread your legs.”

Cautiously, I parted my thighs, squeaking in panic as I wobbled again, feeling D’s arm tighten round my waist. The muscles of my inner thighs stretched taut as I spread wider, my sticky pussy lips peeling apart as I performed the splits in mid air. I tried and failed to lick my dry lips, panting hard into my gag as my trembling muscles began to hurt, flinching as the hard tip of a vibrator slid easily an inch into my slippery cunt.

I tried to shift my hands, numb now and tingling with pins and needles. D pulled the vibrator away. “Keep still Lucy or I’ll get a rope and tie you in that position.” With an involuntary, shuddering sigh I willed myself still again and he pressed the tip of the vibrator back into my cunt, letting it drop under its own weight a few inches deep. I listened to his hand slide up the shaft and struggled to swallow nervously.

The vibrator he’d chosen was my largest - eight inches of thick pink, rubbery, thrumming, bullying cock. But that wasn’t enough for him. With gaffer tape, he’d strapped to it the magic wand vibrator, its bulbous head near the base of the vibe. As he started to force the vibe deeper into me, the head of the magic wand came to rest, pressed against my clit. Slowly he rotated the end of the wand, snuggling it against my wet flesh and making me squirm as the vibe rotated inside me. I dug my teeth into my gag and squealed as my back buckled, kicking wildly in the air while D held me tightly.

He held the vibe still and waited for me to recover, whimpering and tear-stained by now, my face flushed pink with effort, my limbs numb and heavy. Sniffling miserably, I painfully resumed my position, with legs spread wide.

“Good girl.  Time for a reward.”

He switched it on full power and I screamed into my gag, jerking and kicking again, my tits bouncing and shuddering, my buttocks jiggling and my back arching and knotted with strain. Abruptly he switched it off.

I slumped, supported only by his arm. Carefully, he switched arms, hoisting me back up onto my hands and waiting for me to spread my legs again. They shook uncontrollably and I lost my balance, wobbling several times before I finally stilled my aching body.

He switched it on again, rotating it this time, grinding the spinning head of the magic wand against my clit as I wailed, giving it a few hard thrusts before rotating again, this time in the other direction. The muscles of my belly started to twitch, tugging at my hips as I began to cum, painfully gasping out my high-pitched squeals until every vibration against my clit was agony and I started screaming into my gag for him to stop.

D let go and I slumped, awkwardly to the floor, sliding off the now-glistening vibe. I lay at his feet, twisted and wincing as I tried to move each cramp-flooded limb. He lay on the floor, half on top of me, holding me still in my twisted shape, not letting me move while he kissed and licked my lips as they stretched around my gag. He undid it and pressed his lips to mine, forcing his tongue into my mouth. With a shuddering moan I sucked on it, silently mouthing “Fuck me” over and over again.

Mascara'd For Life

Because we’re modern young professionals with busy lives and ridiculously over-sized paper cups full of coffee-flavoured frothy milk, we periodically make an attempt at multi-tasking. I don’t know why, it’s always a disaster. Take this morning’s attempt to combine me putting my mascara on with D slipping a quick one up me. Putting mascara on is tricky, especially when, like me, you wear far too much of it. I have to stand on tip-toes against the mantelpiece and peer into the mirror while I make wide-eyed, open-mouthed faces at my reflection. And I was doing this when D appeared behind me, yanking my skirt up over my hips. I wriggled and growled “Gerroff!” at him and he went on tugging and rumbling in my ear, “You know you want to, you little trollop.” He pulled my knickers to one side and sucked on his fingers, rubbing them quickly along my slit, wetting it and spreading it open before shoving his cock into me in a series of thrusts while I gasped and traced mascara in an arc across the mirror with the tip of my wand in an effort to brace myself. He fucked me fast, one hand on my belly, the other cradling my neck. I gazed at my reflection, bobbing in the mirror, mascara streaked across my cheek and blurred around my eyes. With a grimace, he spurted into me, pulling straight out, leaving me bent over and dripping. I straightened up slowly, wriggling my hips as I pulled my crumpled skirt back down. D turned me round to face him and, picking up a make-up wipe, carefully cleaned my face, dabbing delicately around my eyes. He prised the mascara wand from me, my fingers still white from gripping it, and, tipping my chin up, repaired my lashes, turning my face to the light before kissing my forehead and saying, “There, good as new.”

No Longer A Teenage Temptress

Hola, we’re back from Madrid, which is very sneaky of D because he completely denied it was going to be Madrid when I guessed it. He had to ‘fess up at the airport, though, otherwise I might have broken away from his grip and raced across the runway, forcing my way onto a random flight, such was my over-excitement.

I think D probably sold one of his kidneys to pay for the hotel, which was a 5* former palace. Our room had 12 foot ceilings, a chandelier and a marble fireplace surmounted by an enormous gilt mirror. In the bathroom. The bedroom itself was even grander than that. We were especially taken with the massage shower, an enormous marble cubicle with adjustable nozzles pointing in all directions but we didn’t bother adjusting them. No, it’s no good, I can’t type that with a straight face. We dedicated an unsurprising amount of time to adjusting them in exactly the right position to, say, drum warm water gently against D’s balls while I knelt at his feet sucking his cock with another nozzle spraying water at my pussy.

We went to the Prado and chose the pictures we would steal if the fire alarm went off.  I chose Las Meninas by Velazquez and D chose El 3 de Mayo by Goya, both of which are about 9 metres square. “From a practical point of view” wondered D “have we made the wisest choices?”

“Yes, don’t worry, we just need to find some other British people to help us. The British are good in a disaster, you only need to read newspaper accounts of rail accidents. ‘British survivors laughed and joked with their rescuers as they stumbled up the embankment’. And there was that Greek cruise liner that sank and everyone was rescued by the British entertainments officers. I’m sure we’ll find someone from Surrey who’s prepared to help us with a bit of international art theft on their way out.”

We had lunch at a café in the Plaza Mayor which, according the guide book, was a popular location for autos-da-fe, or ritual condemnations of heretics followed by their burning at the stake. “Don’t you think” I said, reaching down my cleavage to retrieve bits of pepper filled with cream cheese and sucking my fingers “that I would have made a very good heretic? I mean I could be dragged, struggling and screaming across the square, jostled by the mob who would throw rotten vegetables at me, then clapped in chains before a judgement panel of cardinals who would condemn me in fierce, ringing tones for being a heretic whore while I sobbed and pleaded. Then rough and lustful soldiers would rope me to the stake and build up a pile of wooden bundles around my feet while I screamed and begged for mercy.”

D thought about this for a while.  “Would you be naked during any of this?”

“Yes, I think the mob could be allowed to rip my clothes off right at the start.  I ought to be naked before I’m put in chains.”

“And when you’re dragged across the square, could it be by butch lesbian nuns who’ve had you locked up in the cellar of their convent for weeks on end practicing unspeakable cruelties upon you?”

“Yes, you can have lesbian nuns.”   

“What about the soldiers?  Will they rape you in front of the assembled townsfolk before lashing you to the stake?”

“No, that would be bad for military discipline.”

“So what time did you say this was happening?”

“I notice you’ve made no mention of sweeping in and single-handedly fighting off a dozen soldiers to rescue me from the smoldering flames as they lick round my toes.”

“No, you’re a heretic whore, I’m going to sit here in the café and watch you burn.”

In the afternoon we went to the Museo de Reina Sofia to see Guernica, which we decided against stealing as our new flat won’t have any walls big enough to hang it. I’ve always been a bit puzzled about Picasso’s sex life. He was such a little frog of a man but women tumbled into his bed at the flick of his paint brush. “That’s the point though, isn’t it” said D “they’re not sleeping with the man, they’re sleeping with the myth of the artist. I mean, you’ve done life modeling, don’t you find it just a little bit lubricious?”

“Sitting on a wooden platform in the town hall covered in goose pimples being stared at by twenty pensioners? Funnily enough, no that’s not in the least bit erotic.”

“Ah, but if you were alone with the artist in his atelier in Montmartre, lounging naked on a threadbare chaise longue, your pale skin flushed pink from the glow of a single oil heater, his gaze penetrating your soul…”

“I think I might go off him a bit when I saw he’d painted me with the contorted and terrifying features of an African mask.”

The Spanish eat late so we had a few hours back at the hotel in which we’d booked a sauna and massage. Squeaky clean and slightly limp, we dozed on our enormous bed, rousing ourselves enough for a quickie before venturing out. We ate in a bar, unchanged since the 1920s, at a table tucked away in the back and dimly lit by candles. The waiters brought us sherry and mussels and then left us alone to kiss and hold hands.

On Sunday, the sun shone all day and we went to El Rastro which is a flea market. The guide book says that ‘rastro’ means ‘stain’ and refers back to the market’s origin as a 17th Century meat market when the stain was the trail of blood left by animals as they were dragged down the hill. Today it’s full of bric-a-brac and tat but we wandered happily, people-watching and buying the ingredients of lunch, which we ate in the Parque del Buen Retiro. This is a landscaped park with an artificial lake and marble monuments. We sat on the edge of an Egyptian fountain, watched over by sphinxes.

A long, aimless walk, sometimes following the route in the guide book and stopping to read about historic buildings, sometimes just diving down interesting-looking alleys, slowly took us back to the hotel. We had proper English tea in the dining room, which was formerly a library and is still impressively book-lined. Then, foot-sore, we soaked in our huge tub of a bath. Gazing at the ceiling, D suddenly said, “How much do you think those chandeliers weigh?”

“What?  Why?”

“They must be very heavy. Look at the chain they hang from and the way it’s bolted into the ceiling. It’s designed to take a lot of weight.”

“Yes, if you say so.”

He sat up straight, slopping water over the edge of the bath. “You’re humouring me now, aren’t you? That’s very cheeky. Birthday treat or not, I don’t think I can let cheekiness like that pass unchecked.”

And that’s how I ended up, on tip toes in the bedroom, my arms stretched above my head, my wrists tied with one end of the belt of a complimentary hotel robe, the other end looped around the chain from which the chandelier was suspended, its crystals trembling and tinkling. D sat on the floor at my feet, slowly lapping at my cunt while I whimpered and squirmed until I teetered on the brink of cumming. Abruptly he stopped and standing, pulled the belt from the loops of my discarded jeans and wrapped its buckle end around his fist.

He brushed my hair over my shoulder, out of the way and kissed my neck, looking up to see our reflection in the mirror as he reached round to cup and squeeze my tits.

“Birthday girl gets a stroke for every year.”

They were hard, steady strokes, drawing his arm right back and slicing across first one buttock then the other, making me gasp and arch and squeak, my head thrown back, looking anxiously up into the rattling chandelier, gritting my teeth as it went on and on, dancing from one tip toe to the other, my arms and shoulders aching, my boobs and bum jiggling as I writhed. D counted quietly with each stroke. On “Eighteen!” there was a tiny shower of plaster dust from above and we froze, staring at the chandelier’s bolt. D laughed and drew his arm back quickly. “Nineteen! Twenty!”

He undid me and I slumped stiffly to the floor, rubbing my sore arms. He knelt down and cupped my face in his hands, brushing my hair away. “What do you say?”

“Thank you.”

“And what do you want for your birthday?”

I blinked up at him.  “I want to suck your cock.”

D sat with his back to the end of the bed and I sprawled on the floor, my wrists still tied together, sucking his cock into my mouth, my lips pressed firmly around it, rubbing its head against the inside of my cheek and letting it pop from between my lips, then spitting on it and sliding the saliva down his shaft with my tongue, flickering my tongue stud around the rim of his cock and across its tip, gulping his spunk down greedily and licking my lips.

We ate in a Castillian restaurant that served great hunks of roast pork that we tore apart and ate with our fingers. Then we emerged into the cold night quite drunk and stood in the middle of the street, D’s hand on my arse, kissing urgently.

That night I woke at about 4 a.m. with a dry mouth. D was snoring gently beside me, dead to the world. What I really wanted was a cup of tea but we had used all the milk so I went padding down to the lobby to mime ‘milk’. A helpful night porter got me not only milk but also the keys to the pool. Alone in the pool, the only light the greenish, flickering of the underwater lighting, I swam for nearly an hour until the porter came in to lock up before the shift changed and anyone discovered he’d let me in. He brought me a towel and for a moment we sat together on the edge of the pool, me in my bikini, drying my hair, him with his bunch of keys and cup of coffee, talking in broken English and hand gestures.

I’m a bit sad to be home again now. The flat’s full of boxes and we’re half-packed to move. We have to finish most of it this week because we’re going to be away again at Easter and then we’re moving the week after. There were some birthday cards waiting for me on the mat. One, from my friend Howard, had a home-made badge which reads ‘No longer a teenage temptress’.