Lucy's Bedroom

Nesting

I've had a sorting out day today. I've started packing for my move - no, you see that's almost the first thing I've told you today and it's a complete fib. What I've actually done is chatted up the men in Threshers in return for the promise of boxes. I'm still a very long way off actually putting anything into boxes. But I have made an appointment to talk to my doctor about my meds, as it probably hasn't escaped your attention that I'm drifting into the arena of the unwell.

I cycled over to Golders Green to sit in the silence of my dad's house for a few minutes, trying to imagine what it will be like living here all on my own. It's a big house and I could actually fill it with lodgers, which would be the sensible thing to do from a 'paying the bills' perspective but I think having other people here would be a distraction and I should really get my head down and study. There's a tree house in the garden and I risked its rottenness to climb up there, sitting with my legs dangling while I watched a pair of delinquent squirrels dismantle next door's bird feeder.

In an attempt to root myself in this place I've joined a gym so I can use the swimming pool and I've signed up for a yoga class. I've also done the round of the charity shops, which are stuffed full of flashy designer gear but very little I actually want to buy. I came away clutching a copy of Claudia Roden's Jewish Food but resisted the temptation to buy the device that cuts cucumbers into long spirals.

I have a strong nesting instinct today, which I would normally deal with by cooking puddings and force feeding them to D. He's very good about this and will eat until it would be dangerous to continue. It's not as much fun cooking for other people but I'm contemplating filling the pantry with jars of pickled things, as a sort of emotional outlet.

Watch Me Cum

Woken at four o’clock this morning by D getting up to go to the bathroom. I leaned against the door, yawning and watching him pee. He glanced over his shoulder at me. “What do you want, sleepy head?”

“I want a good screwing.”

“Come over here” he points to the floor, shaking the last drops of pee off his cock. I pad across the floor and kneel down, the lino hard and cold on my knees, and kiss the tip of his cock, licking it and tasting a slight salty tang of his pee. It’s still soft as I swallow it into my mouth, rolling my tongue around it and feeling it start to stiffen. D rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand, stifling a yawn as I wrap my fingers around his shaft, wanking it slowly while I suck and kiss and lap at his balls, fluttering the tip of my tongue around his arsehole and making his cock jerk in my hand.

I suck on its head again, crouching now, my thighs spread wide, rubbing it against the inside of my check as I wiggle my tongue stud against its underside and I slide one finger into my cunt. D grips a handful of my hair, grunting as I slide my wet finger from my cunt and press it firmly against his arsehole, sliding it in, knuckle-deep.

He bares his teeth as I finger fuck him, bobbing my head on his cock and looking up at him, watching him grimace. Suddenly he tugs sharply on my hair, digging his fingers into my upper arm and hauling me to my feet. He bends me roughly over the sink and its cold edge digs into my belly as I flatten my hands against the mirror, bracing and holding my breath. He slams his cock into my cunt with a wet squelch, jerking my head back by my hair and wrapping one arm around my waist as he nails me. I gasp with each thrust, my tits bouncing and slapping against my ribs. “Is this what you wanted?” he hisses at me, “this, this, THIS?” He thrusts harder with each ‘this’ and I whimper “Yes, yes, yes.”

Reaching round to knead my tits, pinching my nipples hard, stretching them out then letting go and slapping my tits as they bounce, he pounds me steadily, grunting as his cock pumps me full of cum.

He pulls out straight away and, stiffly, I start to straighten up. Suddenly D shoves me back against the bathroom wall, my head banging against the tiles, his hand on my throat. Slowly he leans in and kisses me, biting my bottom lip and grazing his teeth against my jawbone. “Use your fingers. I want to watch you cum.”

I slip fingers from both hands into the wet folds of my cunt, his cum dripping onto them and trickling down the inside of my thighs. I rub and pinch and probe as he kisses my cheek and my eyelids, licks my neck and then bites it, and whispers in my ear, “Cum for me, you slut.”

I rub faster, bullying my clit into cumming, my breathing fast and shallow. D grinds his lips against mine, forcing his tongue deep into my mouth as I suck on it, moaning. Then he pulls back, gazing at my flushed face as my thigh muscles tense and my belly flutters. I let my head fall back against the wall and shut my eyes but he tightens his grip on my throat and my eyes shoot open in shock. “Eyes open, slut, I want to watch you cum.”

Gently he squeezes tighter and I squeal, my whole body trembling as I cum, staring wildly into his eyes as his lips curl into a grin and he covers my mouth with his other hand, muffling my gasps. I bite the fleshy pad of his hand hard and suddenly it’s over, my legs are shaking, my clit is pulsing and throbbing and as I finally shut my eyes I squeeze out a tear. He licks it from my cheek and murmurs, “Good girl”.

Big Wobbly Tits

So, being the kind of people we are, we eschewed a long, serious talk as a way of dealing with our problems and instead we slept all morning and got drunk in the pub at lunchtime.

I was just reaching the peroration of a particularly long and intricate story when I became aware that, rather than hanging on my every word, D was staring slack-jawed at my tits.

“You’re not listening, are you? You’re just staring at my tits.”

“Yes, sorry. Actually, all those times when you think I’m listening, I’m usually just staring at your tits then as well.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? They’re big wobbly tits; of course I’m going to stare at them.”

There is a little atmospheric stir in the pub around us as we become aware that D said that quite loudly and other people have stopped their conversations to listen.

“So,” I continued, very quietly, “are you thinking anything in particular when you stare at my tits?”

“Not really. Mostly it’s just, ‘Look at her tits’, sometimes I’m staring and thinking about something else at the same time, because it’s not true that men can’t multi-task, and sometimes I’m thinking about sliding my cock between them and cumming all over them.”

I cough loudly to try to cover this as I’m still not convinced he’s using his indoor voice.

“Actually,” he continues “I’m thinking about that last one right now.”

Back home, I arm myself with a squeezy bottle of body lotion and kneel naked on the bathroom floor, squeezing long white trails of lotion onto my tits, circling them in a spiral and building up soft, dripping white peaks of lotion on my nipples. Then kneading and squeezing my tits between my fingers, I slowly start to rub it in, smearing the lotion across my skin until it’s white with it, trailing my fingertips through it leaving long streaks of pink flesh revealed through the white. D sits on the edge of the bath, rapt and tense.

I squeeze more lotion in lazy zigzags onto my belly, letting it pool in my belly button, then I slide my hands across my skin, smearing it white and slipping my fingertips down into the folds of my cunt and then up again to cup and pinch my tits.

The bottle is almost empty now; I shake it and then reach out to squeeze the last spluttering drops onto the tip of D’s rigid cock. With long, steady strokes I smear it down his shaft, then cupping my tits and pressing them together around his cock I slide it between them, giving him a slippery, messy titty fuck as he grins down at me.

Bending my head, I purse my lips against the tip of his cock, kissing it firmly and fluttering the tip of my tongue into its slit. He lays his hand on the back of my neck, holding me down as he starts to jerk his cock between my tits and I suck hungrily on its head with a slurping, popping sound.

Suddenly he lets go of my neck and urgently hisses, “Lie down, lie on your back.” I scramble to do it and he straddles my waist, wanking his cock as he sprays my tits with fat globs of spunk, squeezing the last drops onto my bottom lip. He sits back on my tummy, breathing hard, as I wrap both hands around his softening cock, stroking it gently and rubbing the pad of my thumb around its head.

“Sorry,” says D suddenly, “you were telling me a story but I wasn’t listening because I was staring at your tits…”

How To Disappear

I had nothing to do today so I curled up on the sofa in front of a hissing, popping gas fire and dozed until my head throbbed from the heat. I’ve been thinking about sex. Not in the way I usually think about it - “Cor, I could do with a good stuffing from a big juicy cock.” - But about all the different things sex means. Don’t leave me; don’t look at her; I’m lonely; I’m angry; you’ve been kind; I wish I could do something more than this; I don’t want to have to face up to my life; I want to be obliterated.

Sex probably doesn’t mean all those things when you do it and it didn’t always mean all those things when I did it. But just recently, I’ve come to realise, it hasn’t been a very happy experience. That doesn’t mean I want to stop. I want more and more and more sex, I stare at men on the street and on the train and wonder what it would be like to lie underneath them with my legs spread wide, gasping as they hammer their cocks into me. I fantasize about anonymous hotel rooms and men whose names I’ll never know twisting and mauling my body as they toss me around the bed.

And even D, who I never stopped missing and whose cock I thought of every day, buried deep inside my body, joining us together. I had unhappy sex with him when he drove all the way to London tonight, exhausted from work and with dark circles around his eyes. The poor sod probably just wanted a plate of spaghetti and a snooze in front of the telly, but my need for affirmation through sex is so strong that I bullied an erection from him, straddling his lap, desperately driving his cock into my cunt, my fingers curled tightly into the flesh of his shoulders.

I need him to make me disappear, in those few seconds of orgasm when there’s nothing in the world except grinding, sweat-drenched flesh and hot breath and a spurt of spunk. And I kid myself that in the moment he cums he must be happy and if I’ve made him happy then I’m happy too.

He’s asleep now, on his side, his naked back turned towards me. I want to wake him up but I’m not going to because I don’t know whether to say “I’m unhappy and I’m making you unhappy too” or “Fuck me again.”

Earning Every Bruise

I wore my blood red Armani power platforms to break up with C, and you’d think that would give a girl the moral courage to just march in there, announce that it’s been fun but it’s time to move on and then sweep out again, leaving the poor discarded man with a lingering view of how wobbly my bum is in tight jeans. What actually happened was that I dithered outside in the street, still rehearsing what I was going to say, until he noticed me and banged on the window. Having lost the advantage I was forced to go to lunch with him, laugh at his jokes and then let him screw me on his desk before I steered the conversation round to the subject of ruthless abandonment.

Still, it’s done now. I rang D to let him know how I’d got on. “It was fine, really, no problem. Um, at least…well look, I tell you what, just skip over today’s blog and imagine it all went swimmingly.” D said, “Oh good grief!” and put the phone down.

I rang him back. “Look, everyone knows it’s the law that you have to fuck people you’re breaking up with. It’s an act of kindness really, because now he’s thinking, ‘What a bitch but at least I gave her one over my desk.’ I bet you’ve done it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I think it is.”

“Well you’re…I mean…well…oh shut up!”

So hooray, I won that one.

I happened to mention on the phone to my dad that, yes, I’d had a nice time in Slovenia thank you (he’s a busy man so I didn’t point out I’d been in Slovakia) and now I was thinking of looking for a cheaper flat. “Oh,” said my dad, “did I mention I’m taking early retirement and moving to France but I don’t want to sell up in London yet so why don’t you move back in and look after the place?”

Well that was remarkably easy. So for the fourth time in the life of this blog I’m on the move again. I haven’t exactly achieved my aim of finding somewhere I won’t rattle around in but I’ll only have to pay the bills and no rent.

I rang D again. “What is it now, woman.”

“Nothing, I just wanted to say that, notwithstanding my recent blog comments about cock size, you’re a much bigger bastard than C and I fucking love it when you really rough me up and drench me in spunk.”

“You earn every bruise, you little slut.”

Suicide Pacts In Obscure European Capitals

My advice to the traveller considering a visit to Bratislava is, don’t. Go to Vienna instead, it’s less than an hour away and it’s, you know, interesting. Not that Bratislava doesn’t have its charms; it has an historic town centre and cobbled streets and buildings with plaques on. The trouble is, it doesn’t have any identity of its own. Up until 1992 it was (variously) part of Upper Carpathia, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Czechoslovakia, a Nazi puppet state, the Soviet Empire and the Scottish Football League. Even the plaques to famous people say things like “Mozart performed here (when he was six)”; “Liszt lived here (between the ages of seven and nine)”; and “Casanova called Bratislava ‘the most beautiful city in Europe’ (before buggering off to Budapest)”. Nobody comes from Bratislava (and that’s the new game to replace ‘name five famous Belgians’ – ‘name five famous Slovaks’, I bet you can’t) and nobody stays there long.

We stayed three days in a rather splendid hotel that used to be a department store and is entered through a very plush arcade filled with Valentino, Jean-Paul Gaultier and Armani. We even had our own balcony looking down one of the smartest shopping streets in Bratislava (including a jewellery shop called ‘Spleen’ which I failed to persuade D to buy me anything from as he pointed out, quite rightly, that I didn’t want the jewellery, I just wanted a carrier bag with ‘Spleen’ written on it).

We were both a bit jumpy by the time we stood on our balcony. While the holiday was ostensibly to have a proper conversation, we’d both been too busy to set any ground rules or think about what we wanted to achieve, and it isn’t always easy to just turn to someone and say, “So, about the rest of our lives, then…” We hadn’t even talked about sleeping arrangements. I’d gone ahead and booked a double room and then wondered afterwards if that was presuming too much. On the flight out, for the whole two hours I’d been intensely aware of D’s leg pressing against mine and the heat of his body. It’s funny, but most of the time you never notice a thing like that, and then suddenly one day you can’t think about anything else. I’d shut my eyes and pretended to be asleep but really I’d been thinking about his whole body pressing against mine as he lay on top of me and by the time we got to the hotel I would have really welcomed a nice comfortable little shag.

But instead we awkwardly fumbled our way past being in a room with a double bed in it and went out for a walk instead. We did all the important ‘just arrived on holiday’ things like finding the bar that’s going to turn into your local and a shop that sells milk (always travel in Europe with your own mini-kettle, a universal adaptor and cheap Woolworth’s mugs that you can leave behind; being abroad is no reason not to have tea). The bar was hidden away in a courtyard and we only found it because I misread a sign for the Ladies. It was dark and vaulted like a crypt with comfortable sofas in alcoves and a laid back atmosphere that extended to the barman actually being asleep. We drank local red wine for £1 a glass – demonstrating to our own satisfaction that the guide book was right to suggest the local white is better – and ate ‘pickled camembert-style cheese’ which was delicious. Sounds like the perfect atmosphere for having that little chat, doesn’t it? Well no, we buried our noses in the guide book and planned what we were going to do tomorrow instead.

By bedtime, and after blowing a monstrous £30 a head in one of Bratislava’s most expensive restaurants (actually, this is Bratislava’s strongest recommendation, you’ll struggle to spend much more than £100 in the whole holiday) we were genuinely too tired to do anything but go to sleep.

We really tried our hardest with the sight-seeing the next day. We saw the castle (partially inaccessible due to scaffolding); the Town Hall (courtyard only, remainder closed for renovations); The Primate’s Palace, scene of the signing of the Treaty of Austerlitz in Europe’s least interesting Hall of Mirrors, though the rest of this building was rather beautiful and we amused ourselves choosing which room would be our bedroom and which one we’d knock-through to make a big dining-kitchen. We went to the Slovak National Gallery and saw Europe’s largest collection of third-rate paintings by nobody you’ve ever heard of. Usually I choose a painting to steal in the event of a fire alarm, but it was all terrible. Curious to note though, that having spent the bulk of the twentieth century culturally cut off from Western Europe, they’d developed a nice line in knock-offs. Across a room you’d spot something, squint at it, think “Is that a Picasso/Matisse/Duffy?” only to get there and find it was a pastiche apparently painted by a competent 10-year-old.

There was one nice piece which was a corridor lined from floor to ceiling with books. There was a narrow walkway with mirrors on the floor to either side and more mirrors on the ceiling and end walls, creating the optical effect of walking along a precarious gang plank across a bottomless book-lined pit. This was good fun and genuinely unsettling to do and for some reason it put me in mind of the Jewish memorial in Berlin by Rachel Whiteread (I think) which is a cast of the inside of a library, each book representing the learning lost with the extermination of the Jews. I don’t think this is at all what I was supposed to think of, but it’s nice to have some memorial of the Jews as they’d bulldozed the old Synagogue in 1960 to make way for an arterial road.

But never mind all this historical irony, you’re thinking. She’s been banging on for ages and she hasn’t even got to the bit with the shoes yet. D bought the shoes on the way back to the hotel. To get to the lift up to our room, we had to walk into the arcade and past Armani. As we walked past, D pointed to the shoes on a display shelf. “I’m going to buy you those shoes.”

“You can’t, they’re Armani, they’ll cost a fortune. Besides…why?”

“Because I want to fuck you completely naked except for them.”

By this time he had the shop door open. The shop girl looked up and stared at us. I froze to the spot and D grabbed my arm and propelled me into the shop where I stood blushing furiously and looking at the floor.

D plonked himself down in an Italian leather chair as though he owned the place. “We’d like those shoes in a five, please.”

My embarrassment didn’t subside any as the shop girl crouched at my feet, stripping off my smelly old Converse sneakers and pink stripy socks and sliding my feet into the shoes. They’re the glossy blood red of Chinese lacquer, a colour that says ‘not bought in just any shop’. They have a peep toe, a one-inch platform and long, elegant heels with metal tips that rang against the terrazzo floor. D motioned to me to walk up and down, turning and parading past him again and again as he watched. The girl brought some other shoes and he waved her away. “We’ll take them. No, she’ll wear them.”

In the lift, clutching the Armani bag with my socks and sneakers in it, my legs trembled. D, standing slightly behind me, hooked a finger round a stray lock of hair, tucking it behind my ear. I jumped as his finger brushed my skin.

Up in the room, naked now except for the beautiful shoes, I paraded again for D, bending at his instructions, my legs parted and straight, my hands sliding over my calves to grip my ankles. Straightening up again, smoothing my hands over the swell of my buttocks then across my belly and up to cup my breasts, pinching my nipples between my finger and thumb. I lay on my belly across the width of the bed while D knelt up on its side. Behind me, a floor to ceiling mirror reflected the curve of my arse and the hollows of my parted thighs as I reached behind my back to grip hold of the heels of my shoes, my back arched. I kissed the tip of D’s cock as it bobbed in front of my face, sucking it gently and gazing up at him as he cupped my face in both hands.

I pressed my nose against his balls and flickered the tip of my tongue against that sensitive little piece of skin down there. D groaned and pressed his cock into my mouth, my cheek bulging as he fucked it in and out. He wound his fingers into my hair, clasping them together and pressing my face down on his cock until I gagged, wriggling back abruptly, letting go of my heels, coughing and drooling.

D watched me recover and then said, “You let go of your heels.” Suddenly remembering, I snatched for them again but he shook his head. “Too late, Lu.”

Kneeling up on all fours now, facing the mirror, my tits swaying as D knelt up behind me, I watched him in the mirror as he ran his hand up the back of my thigh, smacked it sharply, ran his hand up the inside of my thigh, smacked my cunt, smoothed his hand across my arse, smacked it quickly, one, two, three times. He watched my face in the mirror, watching my reactions as he smacked, now harder, now gentler, suddenly quickly then making me wait. My head began to throb as it went on and on, the burning slowly building in my flesh until it was red and angry. D turned me, kneeling on the edge of the bed, to look at my reflected bum, my thighs slick with juice.

“What do you say, Lucy?”

I rubbed my bum and said petulantly, “I thought you said you were going to fuck me?”

D laughed. “No, that’s not what you say” but he rolled me onto my back and slid his cock into my sloppy cunt, his weight pressing me to the bed just as I’d wanted it to on the plane. It was a long, slow, grinding fuck, D’s fingertips digging into my buttocks, occasionally scraping across my skin as I gasped and nipped his bottom lip between my teeth, my arms and legs wrapped tightly round him.

The next day he made me wear the shoes again. “Even for sight-seeing? On cobbles?” Clomping about in fuck-me shoes is fun for a while but by mid-afternoon my feet were on fire. We sat in the main square, having stumbled across a music festival, and watched families in lederhosen and dirndl skirts play hurdy gurdies and pipes that looked like didgeridoos but sounded like flutes. D held my feet in his lap, rubbing them and saying “It’s actually raining now, can we go please Lucy?” at fifteen second intervals. I was quite enjoying watching some blonde Nordic teenage boys sing while accompanying themselves by hitting bits of wood with hammers, so I ignored him. As we sat there, a couple crossing he square suddenly stopped and began to kiss – a real limbs-entwined, face-sucking snog – ignoring the people around them, who in turn took no notice but just parted around them. D nodded in their direction. “That’s us.”

And that’s it. That’s the full extent of our conversation about our relationship. Maybe that’s all there is to it; a shared hunger. Unimpressed with this, I made him give me a piggy-back ride to the hotel.

Over dinner, sitting in the window of a restaurant a few doors down from the hotel and watching people pass by as we listened to Now That’s What I Call Music 1983 on a permanent loop, I had another go at a conversation.

“So what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know. Is this Kajagoogoo? Do about what?”

“No, it’s Haircut 100. About us.”

“What about us? Oh, I love this, it’s Dexy’s Midnight Runners. That first LP was so good but then after that…”

“Are you still my boyfriend?”

“Yes of course I am. I would certainly hope you’d only let your boyfriend do to you the things I did to you today, and frankly Lucy, I think that’s where you’ve been going wrong.”

“I don’t like being on my own rattling round that big flat. And I won’t be able to afford it now because I’m going to be out of work.”

“Even with the writing you couldn’t afford it. And why would you be out of work?”

“Um, I don’t know, maybe because I slept with my boss then didn’t mention to him I was going on holiday with my ex boyfriend to get back together with him.”

“Well if he holds a silly thing like that against you…”

I lost my temper and went marching unsteadily into the street. D raced out after me. Waiters clustered at the window – this is the most exciting thing to happen in Bratislava since 1848.

Oh, I completely forgot to tell you about the tanks. My drama will have to wait for a moment – imagine us standing in the street having a fag while we wait for the story to start up again.

On Monday we turned a corner and ran into a line of tanks, which seemed to suggest that either the Russians were back or it was some sort of military anniversary. Fortunately, soldiers were handing our leaflets, something they never do at home, and it turns out to be a military parade in commemoration of Slovak independence. If you were paying attention at the start, you’ll remember this didn’t happen until 1992. 1848 is the anniversary of the Slovaks first articulating a desire for independence. Nobody took any notice and so a few years later they came back and demanded, if not independence then at least some form of regional autonomy. The rest of Europe put its fingers in its ears and went “La la la, we can’t hear you”. This went on for the next 150 years, with Slovakia occasionally demanding ever-more modest forms of recognition and the powers of Europe saying, “Did you hear squeaking? Have we got mice?”

We quite fancied watching tanks roll past so we stood in the crowd and waited. Nothing happened. Then someone made a speech in Slovak which sounded like it was almost certainly a prelude to the parade starting. Nothing happened. Some generals with enormous, braided hats and electric blue uniforms began to look at their watches and chat among themselves. Someone made another speech. Some soldiers in historic costume with ostrich feathers in their hats began to fidget and slouch. A limo pulled up but nobody got out. After about 40 minutes of this we got bored and walked down towards the tanks to a place where we could cross the road. Suddenly, D handed me a carrier bag so I now had one in each hand, took out his camera phone and hissed, “Quick, Lu, run down towards the tanks.” With carrier bags outstretched like flags, I danced for a moment in front of the tank while D took my picture, the soldier sitting on the tank laughed and red-faced officials ran towards us as we legged it up a side street. Finally we leant against a wall, panting and laughing as we looked at the pictures, which are, let’s be honest, in enormously poor taste.

Now, back to our domestic dispute, already in progress.

D stood a few feet away from me with his hands in his pockets. “Look, I’ll be back in January, look for a smaller flat until then so you aren’t so worried about earning extra money and when I’m back we’ll make a proper plan.”

Damn him for being sensible. I nodded and came back into the restaurant to a round of applause from the waiters, who had really become swept up in the drama of our dinner.

I had one last go at drama. Wrapped in a hotel bathrobe, I went out onto the balcony and climbed onto the balustrade, able to see from one end of the town to the other. D came out to see what I was doing and I held out my hand to him. “Shall we jump?” He hesitated for a second then leapt up beside me, making me squeal as he wobbled. We held hands and then he suddenly withdrew his and said, “Wait a minute.”

“What is it?”

“Well, it’s sentimental of me, but I always promised myself that if I died in a suicide pact with a girl in an obscure European capital, she would at least be completely naked when they found our bodies.”

“I’m not taking my robe off, it’s far too cold.”

“Oh well, never mind. Cup of tea?”

“OK, you make it.”

Readers Wives

I’m just back from Bratislava, I’m tired and my cat has missed me, so only a short post tonight with a ‘teaser’ story about my holiday. This story concerns the couple who sat in front of us on the return flight. She was perfectly normal-looking and quite pretty with red hair in pigtails and sunglasses pushed up on top of her head. He was wearing a three-piece green tweed suit, tangled shoulder-length hair, a leather trilby and a stoned expression. My first thought on seeing him was, “He looks like a right perve…or possibly German.”

‘Right perve’ was a better assessment. I slept for most of the flight, snoring lightly with drool on my chin, as is always the way when you fall asleep in public. Changing air pressure in my ears woke me as we began the descent and I blinked blearily up at D, who was sitting very upright and staring at the gap between the seats ahead. Following his gaze, I could see the couple were leaning together, ostensibly reading a copy of Private Eye but, from our vantage point, we could see that it hid a really cheap and nasty-looking Readers Wives-type porn mag. And there they were in it!

She was in black frilly undies in an over-lit studio, with a grin as wide as her legs were spread, holding the lips of her cunt open with her fingers. They turned the page and now she was sitting on his skinny lap, his cock jammed up her arse, her legs spread as wide as ever while she kneaded her tits and contorted her face into a grimace of ‘ecstasy’. They were the most anti-erotic images you could imagine; gynaecological and raw like slabs of meat. They turned the page again and now she was kneeling up on a pink leather sofa while he held her arsehole open with his thumbs and she held her cunt open with her fingers. I snorted with laughter and D slapped me hard on the leg.

D was still staring at the pictures.

“Do you like them?” I whispered.

“No, they’re horrid.”

“But you’re still staring.”

“Men have to stare, it’s the law.”

“Do I look like that when we’re fucking?”

He turned and looked at me, shocked. “Of course not! I mean, for a start, you hardly ever bother to get dressed up in black suspenders and stockings…”

It was my turn to slap his leg hard.

“So what do I look like when we’re fucking?”

“You look…debauched. You look like a good girl who’s given up the struggle and accepted it’s her fate in life to be a wicked man’s fuck toy.”

“Hmmm. You look like a wicked man who might reach out and snap my neck with a careless gesture at any moment.”

D leaned over and peered down at my feet. In an unusual choice for travelling footwear, I am sporting a pair of blood red peep-toe platform pumps from Armani. These will reappear in the full story of our trip to Bratislava, but for now he just smirks to himself and I turn a bit pink.

Did You Pack This Bag Yourself?

Off to Bratislava tomorrow and I regret to say I have been less than open with C about this, having left him with the impression that I’m going with ‘friends’, not by directly lying but by omitting to elaborate further. C is remarkably incurious about what I do when I’m not in the same room as him. This might be because he’s fantastically busy at work right now, or because he’s a selfish individual. I don’t know him well enough to tell yet.

I’ve spent some happy shopping time today buying miniature bottles of toiletries and zipping the up in a clear ziplock bag no bigger than 20 inches square as per security instructions. There’s something very pleasing about the wee-ness of all my little bottles of shampoo and shower gel, it’s less like packing and more like playing with a doll’s house. Of course I’ll forget something. Things I’ve forgotten on previous holidays include reading glasses, contraceptives and which airport I’m supposed to be flying from.

Knowing this about me, D phoned to read sternly through a checklist. I got impatient with him.

“Yes, yes I know. Passport, boarding pass, spectacles, toothbrush, baby oil, handcuffs, riding crop…”

“You’re packing baby oil and a riding crop?”

“No. Why? Did you want me to?”

“I fucking do now!”

“Well, look, I can’t pack baby oil because I haven’t got a miniature bottle and even if I did it wouldn’t fit in my clear ziplock bag no bigger than 20 inches square. I will condescend to pack the riding crop but I’m zipping it up in the lining of my bag and if anyone finds it I’m changing my story about having packed my bag myself.”

“Good girl.”

And now I can’t stop thinking about it. A couple of times I’ve gone to take it out again and then changed my mind.

When Cock Size Does Matter

When you’re getting it stuffed up your arse, that’s when. I may, in my girlish enthusiasm, have mentioned that C has a slightly bigger than average cock. This is because he’s a slightly bigger than average man, coming in at a smidgen under 6ft 4. He is, from his own perspective, perfectly proportioned.

Incidentally, in passing girls, I haven’t yet been let down by a tall man. D is 6ft 2 and has everything a voracious girl could need and then perhaps just an inch more. But lovely as this is, C is bigger.

And big is good, up to a point. It’s that little “Oooooh” as he slides it in, it’s that extra bit of struggle to choke it down, it’s a legitimate reason to squeal and giggle as he chases you round the bed. But jammed up your arse…it’s a bugger.

We did all the things you’re supposed to do with pillows and lubricant and gentle tonguing and fingering but I still dug my claws into the bedclothes and screeched “Stop!” before it was all in. Of course his mistake was in listening to me. D never took any notice of “Stop!” but C doesn’t have the evil Nazi overlord gene, and that’s a shame.

After a couple of goes I relaxed enough to take it all, on my hands and knees on the bed with my back arched and my head thrown back as I shuddered and sighed. Then the bastard fucked me really hard and fast, pulling out and flipping me over at the last minute to cum on my tits.

He sat back on his heels, breathing hard and slowly broke out into a huge grin. “I’ve wanted to do that since I was fourteen!”

I lie on top of him and make him tell me his fourteen-year-old wank fantasies while he plays with my clit.

The Collapse Of Global Capitalism

It hasn’t been my finest day today. I was supposed to be having lunch with my dad but when I got to his office he was busy preventing the collapse of global capitalism by shouting at it down the phone. So I sat on my own in his office, twirling round and round on a chair, gazing at the view of the Thames from one window and the trading room from the other. How was I to know that if you spin for long enough in the same direction you can completely unscrew the seat of your chair and land with a whump on your bottom with your feet sticking up in the air while everyone in the trading room cheers and claps?

Eddie came to rescue me. Eddie’s been there since I was a very little girl visiting my dad, in the days when he sat at a trading desk. He’s something to do with regulatory supervision which I don’t pretend to understand but I think essentially his job is to stop everyone going to prison. He sat me at the same corner desk he’s always occupied and gave me a toffee.

Eddie’s retiring soon. He told me about the house he’s bought in Cornwall and the boat and how his wife has gone crazy since she started HRT but he’s thinking of buying her a shop she can turn into something useless like an art gallery. I told him about how I seem to have acquired two boyfriends, one of whom I’m reliant on to pay the electricity bill, and I’m a horrible person.

When my dad finally emerges he’s clearly forgotten why I’m there. “Ah, Lucy, how much was it you said you needed again?” The words, “No, we were going to have lunch” freeze on my lips as he starts peeling off notes and, avaricious little hussy that I am, I take the money, give him a kiss (which he bats away distractedly) and skip quickly past the rows of still-sniggering schoolboys.

D has sent me a text consisting of a question mark. I call him back, not certain what I’m going to say. I surprise both of us by saying, “Let’s go to Bratislava”. This isn’t completely out of the blue as I was looking it up earlier in the year and thinking about going away for a long weekend before the current relationship crunch. I was too skint to do it then, but now I have my dad’s money. Besides, D needs a break from everything that’s going on at work and home and, although we’ve had a number of disjointed conversations, we haven’t reached any conclusion about what we want to do. Because I’m not quite as evil as I write myself, I know I really should do that before I go any further with C. Random shagging may have been a feature of my time with D, but emotional attachment has always been out of bounds.

You know how I just put ‘I’m not as evil as I write myself’? Well that’s a lie. Ten minutes after I finished booking online for Bratislava I sent C a text that read, “So, are you going to come round and shag me up the arse or what?”