Lucy's Bedroom

In Which Lucy Is Abducted By Tuareg Nomads (And Gets Home In Time For Tea)

Phew, after yesterday’s polemic I need a sit down. Thank you everyone who’s commented. Rather unusually, I have opened up the comments on my other site (Google lucys_bedroom) where there’s some debate.

Meanwhile, I’m still struggling womanfully with historiography (the writing of history and the use of historical methods) which means I’m still wrestling with Gibbon but now with Carlyle as well (who wrote with a certain malevolent relish but was an idiot). The manuscript of the first volume of his work on the French Revolution was burned by John Stuart Mill’s maid in what history records as an unfortunate accident but I prefer to think of as robust literary criticism.

Of course a day spent studying also encompasses the following activities: standing barefoot in the kitchen eating cashew nuts and reading the labels on everything in the larder; watching a day time television show about a self-satisfied couple from Nottingham being shown holiday homes in Tangier but not actually buying any of them; baking gingernut biscuits; relieving my cat of a field mouse with a neatly broken neck and painting my fingernails green.

Possibly inspired subliminally by the Tangier thing, I drift into a reverie involving a Moroccan holiday, abduction by Tuareg nomads, a burkha-clad journey across the desert on a camel and my eventual sale at a rowdy market-place auction into sexual slavery. I believe the novel and surprising use of a hookah may also have featured. When D comes home I greet him with the question, “For your birthday, would you like a camel?”

I think it’s fair to say he didn’t have an adequate answer to this question. He briefly considered colouring in another segment of Lucy’s Barometer of Wickedness but decided against it. “I can’t be certain that your longing for a camel is actual evidence of wickedness. You may just be contemplating making camel milk cheese and I feel I should give you the benefit of the doubt.”

You May Already Be A Criminal

An act which threatens or appears to threaten a person’s life. An act which results in or appears to result in serious injury to a person’s anus, breasts or genitals. An act which involves or appears to involve sexual interference with a human corpse. A person performing or appearing to perform an act of intercourse or oral sex with an animal.

No, not a quiet night in at Lucy’s, this is the definition of ‘extreme pornography’ in the new Criminal Justice Bill that the House of Lords looks set to vote into law next week.

This Bill came about as the result of a terrible case around five years ago when Jane Longhurst, a teacher from Brighton, was murdered by Graham Coutts, who was subsequently jailed for life. At the trial, it came out that he was a regular visitor to websites containing images of women apparently being subjected to sexual violence. Following the trail, Jane Longhurst’s mother Liz began a campaign to ban the possession of such images.

I have the greatest possible sympathy for Liz Longhurst. What happened to her daughter is appalling and the urge to turn her grief into action is completely understandable. But we should not have listened to her. Here’s why.

A rational society does not leave the law to grieving relatives and with good reason. The decisions they make are not based on calm reflection of what is best for society as a whole. Instead, they make decisions based at least partly on an emotional response. This is frequently selfish or vengeful. In the UK, which has not exercised the death penalty since 1965, we are familiar with the relatives of the murder victim who angrily tell the TV cameras or the tabloid newspaper “They should bring back hanging, I’d pull the lever myself!” These people don’t realise it, but they’re actually the best advertisement for why no civilized society should have the death penalty. It’s precisely because they seek vengeance that they should be kept away from the law, the purpose of which is not vengeance but justice.

Ah, but grieving relatives don’t make bad laws, politicians do. Ever mindful of a populist band-wagon to jump on, and in the wake of some salacious reporting by the tabloid newspapers, the then Home Secretary David Blunkett, supported Liz Longhurst’s call for a ban on the possession of ‘violent and extreme pornography’. Until now, pornographers have had to operate within the confines of the Obscene Publications Act of 1959. This law will remain in place but the new Criminal Justice Bill is designed to take account of the realities of the internet age, when websites accessed in the UK may be hosted outside it and so fall outside UK jurisdiction. Under the new rules, criminal responsibility shifts from the producer (who remains bound by the Obscene Publications Act) to the consumer of pornography.

Now let’s have a little think about this.

I have seen images that would fall under the description of ‘extreme pornography’. You probably have too. I haven’t murdered anyone and I don’t expect you have. There is no causal link between viewing such images and committing murder. It is true that Graham Coutts viewed such images in a manner that was described in court as ‘obsessive’ and that he committed murder but no causal link between the two was established. Maybe he committed murder because he was mentally unbalanced. Maybe his mental unbalance was caused by something other than the images he viewed (and his obsession was a symptom rather than a cause)? That would certainly explain why he’s a murderer and we’re not. Just because two things happen in proximity to each other does not mean that one cased the other. This is the same old, shabby, worn-out argument that gets trotted out every time we want something to blame. “The world is random and mean and it’s all the fault of movies/video games/the internet. Someone should do something…” If this argument had any merit, we’d be up in arms about the influence most frequently cited as an influence by serial killers. But I guess reactionaries can’t drum up enough support for banning the Bible.

Of course, the fact that you and I have seen such images need not be a problem. This law won’t stop anyone looking at the images, just being in possession of them. So if Graham Coutts was at liberty today, he could go onto his favourite websites all day every day, just as long as he didn’t download any of the violent images he looked at.

What do we mean by a violent image? Remember the definition, ‘An act which threatens or appears to threaten a person’s life’. So if I have a copy of the famous Vietnam War photo taken by Eddie Adams of Nguyen Ngoc Loan raising his pistol and shooting Nguyen Van Lem in the head, am I a criminal? What if I were to take sexual gratification from this photo, am I a criminal now? How about if I have a drawing of a naked woman being strangled? Is this an image of an act which threatens or appears to threaten a person’s life? Can it be, when it is a drawing? And if it is, then where is the line between a criminal work of art and, say, a Medieval painting of the crucifixion. Both show, often in graphic and disturbing detail, the torture and death of an individual (and there is a history hundreds of years long of the sexualisation of images of Christ and the saints in art). If one escapes censure because it’s art, then who decides what is art and what is pornography?

Let’s imagine you or I are in a consensual sexual relationship which involves, say, auto-asphyxiation. That would be perfectly legal. Taking a photo of it would make us criminals. Ah, but the framers of this law have thought about this. They’re planning to table an amendment to the Bill that would make it OK for us to take that picture for our own enjoyment, as long as we don’t disseminate it. So, hang on, let me check I’ve got this straight. It’s illegal to be in possession of extreme pornography unless you star in it yourself but not legal to publish it because that would mean other people could look at it, which is not illegal, as long as they don’t download it. And if we’re all so worried about this material, why does the law make concessions to people who are producing it? If it corrupts and depraves, then surely these are the people society should be most worried about?

Corrupts and depraves. That’s the definition of pornography in the Obscene Publication Act – any material that has a tendency to corrupt and deprave. It’s not perfect, but it’s about a million times better than what’s being proposed now. It allows a judge to consider the norms of society and compare allegedly pornographic material to those norms, because what society holds to be acceptable is constantly changing. It means a judge can ask the question, “Who was corrupted or depraved and how did that happen?” This Bill seeks to set out an absolute, rigid and unchanging definition, and fails spectacularly because it is hopelessly vague.

I have images on my website. I couldn’t tell you whether any of them will be caught by this act. Ignorance of the law is said to be no defence but it should be when the law is incapable of sensible interpretation. What will happen if I’m found to be in possession of criminal images? Will my home be raided, my possessions ransacked, my computer taken away? Will I be dragged to the local police station in the full glare of the tabloids? And if that happens, will I fight this law as an infringement of my human and civil rights, or will I quietly accept a caution and never apply for a job that requires a police check? Who would be brave enough to demonstrate against this law?

This is a thought crime. I find an image arresting, nobody was harmed in its production and nobody will be harmed as a result of me owning that image. My ‘crime’ is the thought that this is an arresting image. If this is the future, then let’s follow it to its logical conclusion. A man rapes a woman because he believes women are all gagging for it. Every day he bought The Sun newspaper (with its cheery, smiling, apparently available, topless, teenage lovely on page 3). Possession of a copy of The Sun is now a crime. A woman sees an advert for a car that shows it bowling sportily along a winding Italian mountain road. Inspired by this, she buys the car, drives it jauntily down the street and kills a pedestrian. Possession of a copy of that advert is now a crime. You see a Party Political Broadcast on the television on behalf of a political party. You vote for them and they take us into a war where thousands of civilians and soldiers are killed. Possession of that broadcast is now a criminal offence.

This matters, not because it matters whether anyone can possess these images but because governments should stay out of our bedrooms and out of our imaginations and because no one individual, however terrible the events of her life, should be allowed to dictate what it’s nice for us to think.

I feel compassion for Liz Longhurst but I think she’s wrong. I think her grief has led her to act from selfish motives and I think our politicians should have the courage of leadership to tell her that, not to waste our money and precious government time on a law that will not work and will not save the next grieving parent’s daughter. Because I mean her no harm I will give her the last word. You’ve read what I think, now you can read what she thinks and then you can do what the law should allow all adults to do – you can decide for yourself.

"I'm not (a horrible killjoy). I do not approve of this stuff but there is room for all sorts of different people. But anything which is going to cause damage to other people needs to be stopped. There is no reason for this stuff. I can't see why people need to see it. People say what about our human rights but where are Jane's human rights?"

More Of Lucy's Exciting Adventures On Her Bicycle

I know I’ve been neglecting those of you who only read my blog for tales of my bicycle. It’s an under-catered for special interest. I bet you could search most sex chat sites on the internet from top to bottom without finding more than a dozen chat rooms dedicated to girls on bicycles.

Today, my bicycle and I got chased down the road by a retarded Dalmatian, woofing and lolloping happily with its tongue hanging out, distantly followed by a rather red-faced, puffing lady. I weighed up the pros and cons of stopping. Con: the dog might eat me. Pro: if I don’t stop the red-faced lady’s never going to catch up. I pulled over and the dog leapt up with its paws on the crossbar, licking my face and pinning me against a tree. Red-faced lady arrived and when she’d finished panting, said crossly to me, “Well that was very silly, wasn’t it?”

I still have no idea what she thought was very silly. Was my being on a bicycle a dangerous provocation to her (illegally off-the-lead) dog? Was stopping my mistake? Maybe her dog would have eaten me if she hadn’t arrived at that moment? Perhaps she meant that she was the foolish one for putting up a chase? She might have been trying to get rid of this donkey of a dog for years and now she’d blown her only chance of getting it to follow me home. We’ll never know. She clipped a lead on the dog, snapped, “Oh do come on Jasper!” and dragged it away, its legs splayed as it dug its paws stubbornly into the road, still woofing and slobbering.

I carried on to my friend Itsuko’s house. She was still a bit wide-eyed from a visit to her mother who, while Itsuko was staying, hosted an Ann Summers party. I boggled a bit at this as well. The one time I met Itsuko’s mother she struck me as a very prim and tiny Japanese lady of the generation that still lowers their eyes when they speak and covers their mouths when they giggle. I would have loved to have seen Itsuko (who has pink hair and piercings) sitting surrounded by her mother, aunties and all their prim little friends as they passed round giant sparkly vibrators, pressing their tips to their noses to test the vibrations. I asked Itsuko what her mother bought but she could only cover her face and shake her head in silent horror.

She did, however, send me away with a present, which is a little 4 inch finger-slim vibrator in lemon yellow (so this season’s colour) with a kick like a donkey. Apparently they were only £1.99 so Itsuko has lots of them, in a wide range of pastel shades, piled up in a bowl like sweeties. I have of course tested this thoroughly and I can honestly say that few things that only cost £1.99 have pleased me so much.

D and I have been coming down a bit from the giddy excitement of our adventures in swinging. D, claiming that I was recklessly out of control (‘cos this is all my fault, yeah) tried to impose proper Victorian modesty and the missionary position on me, switching off the light and insisting that I avert my gaze and lie perfectly still. This was completely impossible and every time I moved, his dire warnings that I was a Jezebel headed for the fires of hell made me giggle so much that in the end we just kind of went off sex and ended up chatting. Clearly modesty’s not for us (as you may have spotted from the fact that I write a sex blog).

Looking Too Eager

D’s got a text from J.  ‘Any time you fancy another go…’

“Does it look too eager to ask him over again tonight?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell him you made me do it.”  And D rings him, going out of the room so I can’t hear their conversation.

I spread my fingers against the wall, my arms braced, bent at the waist, my legs spread, my thighs glistening wet with juice as they take it in turns to crack their belts across my buttocks, one on each side, barely giving me time to catch my breath between strokes. My buttocks jiggle as I flinch and my tits sway and bounce with each slash. J pauses, stroking my glowing arse with his hand.

“How hard do you beat her?”

“Until she cries.”

“And does she like that?”

“I don’t know.  I’ve never bothered to ask her.”

Now this is a fib on D’s part but this is clearly tonight’s game.

“Can I whip her tits?”

“Lucy, stand up!  The gentleman wants to whip your tits.”   

I straighten up, turning to face them with eyes demurely lowered and hands clasped behind my back. J draws his arm back and snaps his belt hard across the underswell of my tits, harder than D ever has, and I gasp and stumble back. They watch me compose myself, stand upright again, lower my face, pink and tear-stained now.

“Do you bugger her?”

“Constantly.”

“Does she enjoy it?”

“No, I don’t think she does.”

“Then she’s an ungrateful girl.”

D lifts my chin with the coiled tip of his belt. “Did you hear that, Lucy? The gentleman says you’re an ungrateful girl. Shall we teach you some manners?”

I swallow and lick my dry lips, nodding almost imperceptibly.   

On my knees on the bed, with my face buried in my hands, I feel the tip of a cock press against the lubed and puckered rim of my arsehole. I gasp involuntarily as it stretches me open then exhale slowly as the shaft sinks deep into me. I squirm back against its owner, still not sure which of them it is. It’s pulled out, leaving my hole gaping for a second, then shoved in again as my hole tightens, making me groan and wriggle.

As the cock sets up a steady rhythm, a hand covers my eyes and a body slips in front of me. I press my face against warm belly skin and wrap my hands around what I know is D’s waist. He uncovers my eyes and I look up at him, smiling down at me. “Alright, little monkey?” I nod and kiss his tummy as J digs his fingers into my hips, tugging me back onto his cock. D lightly cups my tits, letting my nipples graze the palms of his hands as J fucks faster, grunting as he thrusts.

Suddenly J circles my waist and yanks me back until he’s sitting on the bed with me on his lap, still impaled on his cock, my thighs spread. He squeezes and kneads my tits as D bends to lick my cunt.

“Stick your cock in her,” says J.  “Fuck her hard.”

D slides up my body, jamming his cock into the folds of my cunt, squeezing it in alongside J’s cock in my arse. I gaze up at him with wide eyes and whisper, “Can you feel him?” D nods and starts thrusting hard and fast, his cock rubbing along the shaft of J’s through the wall of my cunt, fucking us both.

J starts twining my hair around his fingers, knotting and tangling it and pulling my head back. I give in to it, arching my back and letting all resistance go, jerking and bouncing and whimpering as D drives faster into me. I jump, shocked when J suddenly bellows and spurts spunk into my arsehole. D stops for a second, breathing hard, then rolls onto his back, pulling me after him, J’s cock sliding from my arse as I clamber on top of D, sliding down his cock and grinding it hard as I squirm and bounce my way to orgasm. D cums with a sigh and I slump on top of him.

J doesn’t stay so late this time and as I make him a cup of tea before he goes I can hear the murmur of voices in the next room but not what they’re saying. After J’s gone I quiz D.

“He wanted to know if we’d go to a party.  He said didn’t I want to watch you getting fucked in all holes by ten men.”

“And do you?”

“What, pounded relentlessly by a sex-crazed mob until you’re nothing but a semi-conscious, spunk-drenched, broken scrap of bruised flesh? Frankly I can’t see the appeal…”

“Liar, what did you say?”

“I told him I thought we’d about reached our limit of experimentation for the time being.  Was that the right answer?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know I’m lying?”

“You told him I don’t enjoy being buggered.”

“You’re right, that was a total lie.  Are you going to inflict a terrible punishment?”

“The worst one known to woman-kind.”

“No, not the washing up!”

“And the hoovering.”

“You sadist.”

Two Policemen

Andy the gay policeman rings with a problem. His one-night-stand has dropped a glass while barefoot in the kitchen, stepped back onto a big piece of broken glass and is now running round the flat dripping blood and getting visibly paler by the moment. “Your chap’s a doctor so I thought I’d ring you.”

“Yes, David’s a doctor, I’m a historian. I can explain the historical circumstances of the discovery that cholera is a water-born disease or discuss the relationship between mass European programmes of public health education and Nazi theories of racial stereotyping but I can’t tell you how to stop your casual shag’s toe from bleeding.”

“Ugh, it’s all over the carpet – stand still you silly mare – I read somewhere that saliva’s antiseptic and that’s why we suck our fingers when we cut them. Do you think I should suck his toe?”

“I don’t know.  Yes, okay, if you think it will help.”

And that’s how D comes home to find me sitting on the floor giggling and shouting, “Suck it, suck it harder, now spit on it!” down the phone.

“Lucy, have you taken up telephone sex without telling me?”

“No, you see Andy met this bloke in Soho last night and, well, not so much Soho itself, more towards Leicester Square really and…”

“Is this going to be a very long story?”

“…and he’s bleeding to death on the carpet.”

D snatches the phone off me and starts barking very stern instructions about sitting still and elevating his foot and putting pressure in different places. Once they’re safely dispatched off to casualty to get it stitched D gives me a telling off for not taking it seriously because apparently you can very quickly lose enough blood from a cut foot to go into shock. I’m chastened but a bit narked too, because I don’t see why I should have been expected to know that. Ask me a question about the Wars of the Roses.

We go for a slightly bad-tempered drink up in Hampstead and bump into J, the second policemen in this post, who I’ve never met before but you’ve met here Party Like It's 1973. Even someone as well brought up as I am can struggle with etiquette sometimes. What do you say when first introduced to a man who supplied your boyfriend with disposable plastic handcuffs for sexual purposes? It turns out he’s very nice and non-creepy and we chat happily with him and his friends about flat-hunting and work and holidays. D and I even forget we’re meant to be having an argument.

At closing time, I nip into the loos for a going-out wee and D sends me a text.

D: What do you think?

L: About what?

D: About J

L: He seems nice

D: Shall I ask him?

L: Ask him what

D: Ask him home

L: Why?

D: God you’re thick

L: Oh.  Do you want to?

D: Say yes, slut

L: Not all his friends!

D: Just him.  Say yes.

And so I do. I hide in the loos for a bit longer than I need to because I can’t imagine what conversation D will have with J to actually broach the subject. And it occurs to me with horror that they might have had the conversation before D started texting me and they’ve both been reading my replies. I try to push this idea to the back of my mind, put on my lipstick, hold my tummy in and step back into the bar, which is almost empty now as the staff gather glasses and put chairs on tables.

We walk home, striding quickly and panting slightly as we hurry up hill, talking as we go. I put my hands in my pockets and D slides his hand into one pocket beside mine, curling his little finger round mine, a small reassurance.

How do you start a thing like this? I flap about offering tea or coffee, or maybe a sandwich or I could make cheese on toast? D puts his hands on my waist and steers me into the bedroom. I flap some more, starting to tell the story of how we broke the bed as a comedy anecdote. D puts his hand over my mouth and J stands in front of me, sliding his hands over my hips and up under my top, stroking them over my ribs and cupping my tits. All the way home I’ve been aware of how wet my pussy is but now, sandwiched between them, feeling their bodies trembling against mine, I suddenly want to rip at my clothes and fling myself naked onto the floor, let them invade my body, tear me apart. D must feel me tense because he whispers in my ear, “Slowly.”

They undress me and themselves, carefully peeling off each garment, folding it, taking their time. J kneels at my feet, examining my clit piercing, touching it with the tip of his tongue and making me whimper. D wraps his arms around me from behind, one hand parting my sticky cunt lips for J’s tongue to lap deeper inside me, the other squeezing my breast. I turn my head and kiss him, gasping into his mouth as J’s tongue probes deeper. Our kiss finally ends and J licks my belly, catching my belly-button ring between his teeth and tugging it as he looks up at me. D kisses my neck and says, “Fuck her.”

Something inside my belly flips over and my legs feel weak because hearing D tell this man I barely know to fuck me is just about the most exciting thing I’ve ever heard. As he stands and kisses me I wrap my hand around his cock, feeling it hot and velvety hard in my palm, different from D’s, twitching and excited. I mumble, “Fuck me” into his kiss and we stumble onto the bed, stretching out with him on top and I spread my legs wide and let him in, moaning softly as he slips in easily. We grind slowly against each other, arching and gasping and kissing each other’s mouths and necks and shoulders. D lies on the bed beside us, watching. I reach out to touch his face and he turns his head, biting the palm of my hand, sucking and nipping my fingers as J starts to thrust faster. I slither the fingers of my other hand down to my clit, rubbing it as he fucks me, wanting to cum on his cock, squeezing my cunt tightly round his shaft. He freezes, his face screwed up with tension, then with a series of sharp stabs he shoots his spunk into me and I rub my clit furiously desperate to cum but not quite there.

I choke off my gasp of disappointment as he rolls off me, flopping onto the bed at my side. D rolls on top, plugging himself into my sloppy cunt, humping me hard and nipping the thin skin at my chin and collar bone with his teeth. J leans across and cups D’s balls from behind. For a moment D loses his rhythm and I watch his face, his eyes glazed, slowly focusing on mine. I lift both hands to where he can see them, wiggling them to prove it’s not me and getting the giggles. D snarls at me and starts fucking faster, growling and moaning as J continues to stroke and gently squeeze his balls. Suddenly D hits a perfect angle and my eyes widen and I hiss, “Yessss” and I’m cumming, grunting and scraping at his back with my fingernails. He groans out a few more strokes and floods me with cum, covering my mouth with his hand to muffle my final whimpers.

We lie in a jumbled heap, breathing hard for a few minutes, then D slaps my arse and says, “Tea, woman!” As I trot off obediently to put the kettle on D lights up a spliff. We lounge about talking for a while but I’ll admit I’m distracted by the close proximity of two beautiful cocks. As they sit side by side on the bed, I suck first one, then the other, showing off my best, sloppy, cheek-bulging, deep-throating cock-sucking technique. J is the first to kneel up, scraping my hair back into a pony tail and holding my head back, his hand cupped under my chin as he slides his cock back into my mouth. D kneels behind me, rubbing his fingers through my slit for a few minutes, pinching and teasing my clit, listening to me moan into J’s cock, then shoving his cock into my pussy, fucking me with quick, firm strokes that jerk me forward, gagging as I swallow J’s cock deeper. J pulls back suddenly and sprays my face with spunk, making me squeak with surprise. D laughs and slaps my arse, fucking faster. J lifts me up off my hands until I’m kneeling upright with my arms wrapped around him, kissing him as D keeps fucking me. J pinches my clit between his fingers, rolling and rubbing it in a slow circle and I squirm back against D, groaning as I start to cum. D pulls out while I’m still twitching and rolls me onto my back, straddling my face as he goes to wank his cock into my face. But then J reaches over and wraps his fingers around D’s cock. I can see D hesitate for a moment and then let J slide his fingers over the head of his cock and down to its base over and over until it jerks and spurts spunk in long sticky trails onto my lips and cheeks and chin.

In the hall, dimly lit by the first light of dawn filtering through the stained glass in the door, J cups my face in his hands and kisses me. Then turns to D and does the same while I hop up and down delightedly. We wave him off then stand staring at each other.

“Well, that was very…”

“Yes it was, wasn’t it?”

Tits Out For The Lads

A nice beery fuck last night as D came home from the pub, a little louder than normal but not too drunk to be of interest to me. He scooped me up with his arm around my waist, kissed me on the nose and said, “Come on love, get your tits out for the lads.”

‘The lads’ in this context being Giles, who long-term readers may remember D used to share a house with. Being tremendously well brought up, Giles demurred immediately. “There’s absolutely no need to get your tits out on my account Lucy, unless you were planning on doing it anyway. It’s not like I haven’t seen them before and I remember they were very nice.” And then, surprisingly quickly for someone apparently so lucid, he fell asleep on the sofa.

D stops in the middle of making cheese on toast.  “When did Giles see your tits?”

“When I was sunbathing topless in the garden. And when we all got drunk and played strip Scrabble. And that time he walked in on us in the bathroom.”

A slow smile of recognition spreads across D’s face. “Oh yes. That thing he walked in on us doing in the bathroom…you don’t fancy..?”

“No, it’s far too late and I don’t have that loofah any more.”

Instead, we have a fumbling, half-dressed bunk up, with the duvet wrapped around us, giggling and nudging each other with knees and elbows. D kisses me fiercely and I taste stale beer on his breath as his tongue invades my mouth, his lips crushing against mine too hard, our teeth clashing as we tilt our heads. His grip on my hips is too tight, his fingers sinking into my soft flesh, bruising it. His weight on top of mine is too heavy for me to do anything but wriggle, moaning into his kiss as he fucks me clumsily, with no finesse, somehow hitting exactly the right spot and making me cum startlingly hard and fast, my eyes wide with surprise as my body trembles and throbs.

D laughs at my surprised expression. “Good girl.” Then he buries his face in my shoulder and pounds me until his cock twitches inside me and with a groan he floods me with spunk.

We sleep fitfully, still knotted up in clothes and the duvet. At about 4 a.m. I’m properly awake and too hot. I tip toe to the bathroom and shower, creeping naked back to the kitchen, where I encounter Giles, who I’ve forgotten about. Woken by the sound of me showering, Giles has decided to make tea.

There are probably etiquette books that can give you advice on what to do when naked with your boyfriend’s former landlord. Sadly I don’t own any of those books. Giles nods sleepily. “Just like I remember, nice tits.”

Hazy Sunshine

There’s a square patch of sunlight that slides across the floor of my bedroom in the afternoons. It starts on the floor by the fireplace and slowly creeps across until it falls on the bed. Today, it glimmered through the rain clouds as they parted in a leaden sky and warmed the bed as I lay on my tummy, having a better studying day than yesterday or the day before. The cat stretched beside me and licked between her toes, her eyes half shut.

I rolled onto my back, pushing my reading glasses on top of my head and yawning. Lazily, I cupped my breasts through my t-shirt, rubbing my stiffening nipples, pinching them and feeling my eyelids droop. Sliding one hand up inside my t-shirt, I rolled onto my side, curling up with my other hand between my thighs, running my fingernail along the seam of my jeans. The bed vibrated as my cat vigorously scratched her chin with her hind leg and a million cat hairs floated through the air.

I unbuttoned my jeans and eased two fingers inside my knickers, the elastic digging into my hips. Sliding them into my slit, I rubbed my sticky juices over the folds of my pussy, circling my clit and finally pinching it as I wriggled on the bed, yanking up my t-shirt over my tits and scraping my fingernails across my swollen nipples.

In the weak sunshine I pictured myself sprawled in a glare of blazing sun as it bounced off whitewashed Mediterranean walls and made my oiled skin glitter, my bikini bottoms moulded to the curves of my buttocks, my bikini top carelessly discarded. I rolled onto my tummy and spread my legs as I imagined it, the buzzing, headache-inducing heat, the ripple of breeze on my skin, the eyes of a stranger watching me.

My fingers worked faster, my lips parted as my breathing grew heavier and I imagined hearing the shuffle of his footsteps behind me, not turning as he pulled at the string ties at each side of my bikini bottoms, tugging the fabric away and exposing my pussy, slick with juice. I slid one finger inside my cunt and imagined it was the stranger’s finger, testing me, pictured myself flinching and moaning quietly as he squeezed my sun tan oil down the crack of my buttocks, pressing the fat tip of his cock against my tight little arsehole and slowly forcing his way inside me as he lowered his weight onto my back, crushing me.

With both hands inside my knickers now, my face pressed into the bedclothes, I stuck my bum in the air a little, pumping it up and down as my fingers rubbed faster and I thought about his cock slipping into it, skewering me as it ground away at me, his arm in front of my face my only glimpse of him, beads of sweat trembling on its hairs as I licked it and tasted its saltiness.

Pulling one hand from my knickers, I sucked on my fingers, imagining his fingers stuffed into my mouth, gagging my groans, choking me. This tipped me over and, still sucking the juice from my fingers, I started to cum shudderingly against my frantic fingers.

I slumped and lay for a long time, my eyes shut against the last hazy glimmers of sunshine, breathing hard and feeling my arm trapped beneath me grow numb. The sun went behind a cloud and I rolled onto my back again, making the cat squawk in complaint as I lay on her tail.

With one hand on the curve of my tummy, my jeans still unbuttoned, my tits still exposed, I squinted at my phone as I sent D a text. “I need a man with a fat cock who’ll stick it up my arse. Do you know anyone?”

Made To Be Fucked

Monday was my first proper day as a kept woman. I did my bit, getting up in the morning to make toast and wave D off at the door in my pyjamas (incidentally waving off several other men in the street on their way to work who happily joined in waving back). I took a good look round the flat, making a mental note of all the things I was going to do – hoovering, shopping, ironing, cooking – and then I went back to bed and slept until lunchtime. Having failed as a housewife I decided to see if I could succeed as a student. I lay on the sofa with The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and got as far as “In the second century of the Christian Era, the empire of Rome comprehended the fairest part of the earth and the most civilized portion of mankind.” Many hours later I woke again with a crease in my face from where the book had been resting on it. Still, that’s the first sentence licked. I’m tempted to turn to the last page to see whether he sums up his argument succinctly enough in his final sentence for me to skip the rest. Hang on; I’m going to check now. “It was among the ruins of the Capitol that I first conceived the idea of a work which has amused and exercised near twenty years of my life and which, however inadequate to my own wishes, I finally delivered to the curiosity and candour of the public.”

Good. I’m sure all the stuff in between wasn’t important. And I’m definitely stealing his idea for finishing essays. “It was at the bus stop outside the British Museum that I first decided how to answer this essay question. It has taken me all week and I know it’s a bit rubbish but here it is.”

I was in the bath when D came home and, struck by a sudden happy thought, I clambered out, ensuring strategically placed handfuls of soap suds balanced on my tits and pussy, and draped myself in the bathroom doorway. D slowly put his bag down and took off his coat, inspecting me carefully as he bent forward and blew the suds off my tits, then knelt on the floor and blew them off my pussy, parting my thighs with his hand and spreading my pussy with his fingers as he continued to blow. Very gently, he kissed the tip of my clit, making me shudder. Looking up at me he said, “You taste soapy. What have you been doing all day?”

“Waiting for you to come home and fuck me.”

“So what are you waiting for?  Get on your back and spread your legs, fucktoy.”

There in he hall, on the scratchy sisal carpet, with my skin and hair still wet, my legs in the air, my feet braced against the walls and my arms wrapped round his neck, he fucked me with sharp little thrusts, biting my earlobe and whispering in my ear, “You’re a randy little tart, aren’t you? A horny little cock fiend. You were made to be fucked. You love it, don’t you slut?”

And with each thrust I whispered in his ear, “Yes, yes, yes…”

Kissing The Devils's Arse

I’m back – in more than one way. My profile’s finally back up after only a couple of weeks of screaming tantrums over on the customer service blog. And I’m back from Lancaster. It doesn’t look like we’ll be moving there as, having now met the consultant he’d be working for, D no longer wants the job.

While he was finding this out on Saturday, I braved the cold on the ferry up Lake Windermere from Bowness to Ambleside where I clambered over the ruins of a Roman fort. D won’t normally put up with this sort of thing and indeed mistrusts any activity that requires an anorak. I, on the other hand, am enough of a geek to positively enjoy standing in the middle of a desolate and rain swept field gazing at a series of small grassy indentations that are labeled ‘possible site of former granary’. I sat on the remains of a plinth and ate Kendal Mint Cake while crows circled overhead, presumably hopeful that I would die of exposure so they could strip the flesh from my bones. I thwarted their ambition by heading back to the pier where I was horribly menaced by swans.

I’m relieved we’re not moving to Lancaster. It’s nice enough to visit but it seems very small and provincial. On Saturday night we went to what the internet promised us was one of Lancaster’s top restaurants. It would be out of business in about 10 minutes in London (possibly as a result of lawsuits brought by Londoners who had injured themselves laughing at the fact that they expect you to use fish knives – surely something not seen, even ironically, since 1974).

Our hotel was lovely though – a big old Victorian pub recently refurbished and turned into a boutique hotel with a decent restaurant and very comfortable rooms. We had the bounciest bed in the history of bouncy things. The fact that it was also on casters meant it had to be approached carefully - leap onto it too enthusiastically and you just rolled, wobbling and giggling, across the room. We climbed aboard gingerly and clung to each other for safety before we tried any bouncing of our own.

On Sunday we went to Lancaster Castle. It’s John of Gaunt’s stronghold in the North, Henry IV’s base in the Wars of the Roses and these days it’s a working prison so you can only go into certain parts of the building. These include the old holding cells, underground arched vaults, each about 6 x 9 feet with no windows and only a ventilation grille above the door that leads to a candle-lit corridor. “So,” said the tour guide, “who wants to find out what it’s like to be locked in the cells?”

D nudged me in the small of the back and I stumbled forwards. With the cell door locked and the ventilation grille open, there was still a glimmer of light and I could hear D outside loudly asking for directions to the tea room and pretending to walk away. Then the guide closed a shutter on the ventilation grille and I was plunged into darkness so profound that I lost any sense of the size of the room or my place in it. I screamed and yelled and kicked the door, scraping at it with my fingernails and rattling it on its hinges. On the other side I could faintly hear the hurried jangling of chains and anxious scuffling as they rushed to let me out. The door swung open on their pale faces as I smiled brightly, completely composed now, and said, “So where did you say the tea room is?”

One of the things Lancaster is famous for is the trial of the Pendle Witches. In the unimaginative way of tourist sites everywhere, the historical and social context, the fear, pain and misery of this event has been forgotten in favour of comedy witch hats and t-shirts. D bought me a t-shirt with the image of a 17th century woodcut that shows a witch kneeling to kiss Satan’s arse. Back at the hotel, I wore it in the shower to recreate the scene, kneeling on the floor while D braced his arms against the wall, his legs parted as I lapped at his balls and tickled the rim of his arsehole with the tip of my tongue while I reached round to wank his cock. Spreading his arsehole open with the fingers of one hand, I forced my tongue inside it, fluttering it inside him and squeezing my fingers more firmly around the head of his cock, his hips bucking as he forced his cock through my fingers, groaning as his cock spurted over my hand, spraying his spunk up the wall of the shower. As I sat back on my heels he reached behind him and grabbed hold of my upper arm, pressing me against the shower wall. “Lick it up, little witch.” With long, slow, slurping licks, I lapped up his spunk as it tricked down the tiles, bending with my bum in the air to lap it from the floor.

Still in my wet t-shirt, I stood in the bedroom with my hands clasped behind my back while D sat on the end of the bed, the belt I’d packed wrapped around his fist, its tip rubbing along my pussy. As he drew it away, we both watched a glistening string of sticky juice hang for a second between its tip and my pussy. Then in one quick movement, D stood up, gripped my wrists in the small of my back and bent me over the end of the bed, beating my bottom over and over with the belt, each blow landing on a different part of my flesh until the whole of my arse and the tops of my thighs were pink and glowing and my breathing was ragged as I hiccoughed back tears.

As he parted my pussy with his fingers I shivered with shame as I felt my juices drip onto the bed. D laughed. “Fuck, you’re wet Lucy. You’re just begging for it, aren’t you?”

Looking over my shoulder at him as he slid his fingers into me and brushing hair and tears from my face, I said, “Shut up and give it to me hard, you fucker.” And gripping my hips tightly, he sank his cock into my molten cunt and rammed it up me good and hard while I clung to the bedclothes and begged him for more.

Impulsiveness

D took my resignation admirably in his stride considering this now means he’s paying a bigger share of the bills. I’ve offered to make up for this with extra cooking and sexual favours, though as he pointed out, “It’s hard to imagine what else you could do that you aren’t doing already.”

I had a sound whipping, “for impulsiveness”, bent over my desk, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back as he snapped the end of his belt hard and fast across my buttocks. I squirmed, moaning and sticking my bum out as my flesh throbbed and grew pink. He finished, brushing my hair from my face as I rested my cheek against the desk, sliding his thumb between my lips. I fluttered the tip of my tongue against the pad of his thumb then lapped along it, sliding my lips firmly up and down its length, my eyes half-closed as I sighed happily.

“What do you say, Lucy?”

I let his thumb pop from between my lips, a trail of saliva hanging, quivering from it and said “I want more”, biting the soft mound of his thumb and peering up at him from underneath my eyelashes.

He slid his hand over my mouth and rubbed the belt along my pussy lips, wetting it and parting my sticky, swollen lips. “Are you sure now Lucy? No going back once it starts, no safe word in this game…”

Behind his hand, I nodded and then squealed as the belt cracked along my pussy, stinging and biting into my soft flesh again and again as I rose up on tip toes, spreading my legs wider, my yelps muffled.

I started to shake my head from side to side, trying to shake his hand off, ready to stop. He paused and whispered, “Look at me.” I gazed up and his lips twitched into a smile. “Three more.”

I sighed heavily and nodded. The last three were slow as he stroked the leather against the tip of my clit making me groan, snapping it sharply against my pussy then stroking again. He dropped the belt to the floor and moved behind me, his cock sliding between the buttocks for a moment before I straightened and turned, pushing him back into a chair, straddling his cock and impaling myself, groaning, onto it.

He sat back grinning as I rode him hard, my buttocks shuddering as they slapped down on his thighs, my tits jiggling and bouncing in his face. I finished him off, slithering to my knees on the floor, hands wrapped around his cock, wanking it into my mouth as I teased its tip with my tongue, swallowing it down as his cum spurted down my throat, swallowing every drop and then sitting back on the floor, breathing hard and licking my lips.

He stretched his foot out and placed it on my belly, slowly sliding it up between my tits. I cupped his heel, bending my head and kissed and sucked his toes as we both recovered, our breathing slowing, the room silent except for the sound of my sucking. Sleepily, his eyes closed, D whispered, “Go and put the kettle on, love” and I stretched and lazily ambled downstairs to the kitchen.

We’re going to be away for the weekend in Lancaster because D has a job offer up there. It’s a good offer and he’d jump at it in London but in Lancaster it needs some thinking about. I shall be spending the evening packing, but I’ve already packed D’s belt because I’m feeling in a spanking mood.