Lucy's Bedroom

Iki Masho!

It’s freezing so I’ve very sensibly spent most of the day in bed alternately snoozing and masturbating furiously. I’ve been trying to convince myself masturbation constitutes exercise as I’ve got a bit wobbly round the tum over Christmas and while I’m not normally worried about this sort of thing, I have a PVC pencil skirt to fit into tomorrow night.

My ears are ringing now because I’ve spent so long today squirming up against a vibrator and I’ve lost all sensation in my clit. Maybe I’ve broken it?

The bedroom reeks of cunt – a salty, musky tang – and I’ve done what I used to do when I was fourteen and lit joss sticks to mask the smell. It doesn’t work of course, it just makes the bedroom smell of cunt and patchouli but that’s a combination of smells I’m nostalgic for.

Because I’m media trash (entry level) these days, I’m going to a swanky party tomorrow night and Itsuko is my ‘plus one’. She’s sent me a text wondering whether a hot pink, skin tight satin dress would be overkill. As I’m planning on teaming the PVC pencil skirt with a silver sequinned jacket (with nothing underneath – partly because I’m indecisive and partly because, hey, the jacket has a perfectly good button, doesn’t it?) and a black feather boa, I text her back and tell her I think that will be fine.

Actually I text back “Hai”, which is one of my few words of Japanese. And notice how I know the Japanese for ‘yes’ but not for ‘no’. If I ever find myself on a packed Japanese commuter train, pressed up against a heaving throng of male bodies with a strange hand up my skirt I’ll just have to fall back on whichever one of my other phrases seems most appropriate:

“Domo arigatoo gozaimas” (Thank you very much)

“Aishiteru wa” (I love you)

“Iki masho!” (Let’s go!)

Broken Down

My car broke down today, on Shoot Up Hill in Kilburn, a place absolutely heaving with elderly men walking angry dogs who are delighted to find a girl in a mini skirt and woolly tights bent over a smoking engine with her bum in the air. It gave them an opportunity to polish their sharpest chat up lines.

“Broken down have you, love?”

“Need a hand, love?”

“Must be the fan belt, love. Tell you what, you take a stocking off and I’ll fix it for you, go on, I won’t look.” This last one from a man with approximately half the teeth God gave him, a ratty little Jack Russell and a sticking plaster holding his spectacles together.

Finally the AA man arrived and explained, “Must be the fan belt, love. Tell you what, you take a stocking off and I’ll fix it for you, go on, I won’t look.”

No, he didn’t, but he might as well have done for all I actually understand about cars. He drove me home and towed my car off to be – oh, I don’t know, chucked off Beachy Head or whatever it is they do with knackered cars these days. Recycle them into hard-as-nails Scottish local councillors perhaps.

So I’m a pedestrian again. I really do need a new car because it’s costing more to run and repair that old Mini than it would if I just bit the bullet and bought something sensible like a 2 year old Golf. But I loved the Mini, it was my first car, it’s held together with willpower and string and it’s four different shades of green. I’ve had 2 accidents and 3 men in that Mini and once, when I got lost in the Lake District, I had to pull over and sleep in it wrapped in a travelling rug and waking in a thick mist with an interested sheep looking in the window at me.

On the phone I tell D about it and find my voice wobbling. D is sad too. “I’ve still got a dent on my shin from the handbrake that time in Wales.”

“I warned you, didn’t I? I said it was only designed for blow jobs, not penetration, but oh no, Mr ‘I know better’ had to try.”

“And succeeded, if I remember.”

“Yes, you can still see my footprints on the inside of the roof if you look carefully.”

The Moral Of This Story

I’m back from Oxford and I’ve had a very nice Christmas thank you. I got lovely presents, spent some time in the bosom of my family and had a drunken threesome with some RAF servicemen after a party. Which do you want to hear about first?

Presents first, because getting stuff is the real meaning of Christmas. Rather boringly, I wanted a new coat this year so I chose it, D gave me the money and I bought it for myself. It’s a rather splendid black cashmere knee-length double breasted coat with light brown fur collar and cuffs. It makes me look just a little like Doris Day (who am I kidding, nothing on earth could make me look like Doris Day but that doesn’t stop me dreaming).

Knowing that I would be unbearably sulky on Christmas morning with nothing to open, D also sent me a fishnet stocking filled with many of the things I had been careful to mention previously in my blog, notably the red leather collar with detachable lead and padlock but also some matching wrist and ankle cuffs, also with padlocks, and a pair of inch-long chrome clothes peg-shaped nipple clamps.

Being broadly familiar with D’s present-giving, I elected to open all of this alone in my bedroom. I tried the nipple clamps, experimentally opening and half closing them gently on my nipples before being brave enough to let them squeeze shut, pinching my nipples hard and making me hiss air through my teeth as I inhaled sharply. I looked at myself in the mirror – I think it’s fair to say the nipple clamps don’t make me look like Doris Day. They make my nipples flush an angry dark purple and the blue veins in my breasts stand out against my drained, paper-white skin. I took a picture on my phone, reflected in the mirror, and texted it to D – “I’m playing with my present.”

I decided against playing with any of my other presents as I can’t help noticing the stocking didn’t contain keys to any of the padlocks. Instead, I ate my sugar mouse and went downstairs in my dressing gown to watch The Muppet Christmas Carol.

D will be back on 5 January and I can just about contain my ‘new sex toy’ excitement until then. However this does mean that, if I’m planning any more ‘get it out of your system girl’ random shagging, I’ve really only got the New Year to do it in, which explains the RAF servicemen. On Saturday my brother and his girlfriend took me to a party at my brother’s best friend’s brother’s house. My brother’s best friend’s brother is in the RAF and so the party was serviceman-heavy. Somewhere in the back of my mind I wonder if I should have some vague liberal scruples about shagging people who may have been involved in the bombing of innocent civilians in Iraq, but fortunately for the flow of my story, I very quickly became far too drunk to worry very much about that.

I was, in all honesty, rather more drunk than is sensible for a girl who has left the party to go on to a flat with two men whose first names she gets mixed up. But you know sometimes, in amongst all the cares of the world, you just have to find the time to gyrate around the sitting room, stumbling and giggling as you strip your party dress off, run naked and jiggling into the bedroom, and flop down onto the bed with your boobs bouncing as you grin and call out “Who’s first?”

I wriggled happily as I was plugged at each end, on my hands and knees on the bed with my mouth bulging with one cock and my dripping pussy battered by another. From time to time they changed ends while I squirmed and purred, “Hurry up, I want more cock!” I spent a while at one stage lying on my tummy, dozing as they lay on either side of me, smoking with the ashtray balanced on my bum.

For quite a long while I was on my own with one of them, who knelt at the foot of the bed, bent over and licking my cunt while I twined my fingers in his hair and gazed, slack-jawed, at the ceiling, groaning and arching my back. As the last shudders of my orgasm died away, he crawled over me, pressing the head of his cock between the folds of my cunt and stretching out on top of me as his cock sank in. He fucked me slowly and I wrapped my arms and legs tightly around him, breathing raggedly into his ear. His companion returned and watched us for a moment then put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and rolled him off me, onto his back.

I quickly scrambled on top of him, sinking down onto his cock, squirming and riding it all the way up to its tip before smacking my bum down hard against his thighs. He cupped my swaying tits, squeezing them gently. I looked over my shoulder at his friend, sucking on my finger then circling its tip around my arsehole. He laughed, kneeling up behind me, gripping my buttocks and spreading them. He spat on my arsehole and I pushed his saliva into my hole with the tip of my finger until I could slide it all the way in. He gripped my wrist hard and snatched my hand away, my finger slipping out, and he pressed the tip of his cock into me. I squealed as he forced his cock all the way in and he grunted and cried out, “Oh, you fucking slut!” as he began to nail me hard.

With his spunk still dripping from my arsehole, I finished his friend off in my mouth, gulping down his spunk and licking my lips. I felt sober now and cold in the chilly bedroom; time to find my dress and call a taxi.

In the dark kitchen, listening for the sound of the taxi outside, anal boy pressed me up against the wall, his hands on my bum, whispering in my ear. “You don’t have to go yet. I could make a few calls, we could have a party of our own; what do you say, little slut, how many more cocks could you take?”

That’s a question we may never know the answer to. The moral of this story, rather surprisingly, is if you’re planning on taking advantage of a drunk girl in a tiny dress at a party with a view to having her gang banged by your mates, make sure you do it at the start of the evening before she’s sobered up a bit.

Back at my brother’s, I lay in bed talking to D on the phone.

“What have you been up to tonight, then?” he asked.

“Erm…”

“Lucy, have you been out shagging?”

“Possibly. Have you?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Liar. I can smell cunt on you from here.”

“I’m giving it up for the New Year, though.”

“Me too.”

The Twelve Days Of Christmas 1868

In all the Christmas excitement I almost forgot to write you a Christmas story. This tradition (stretching all the way back to last year) can be celebrated by scrolling down the left hand side of the page to find The Twelve Days of Christmas 1868.

Crudely Adapted From A Cattle Prod

Here I am again, still not doing any Christmas shopping, same as yesterday. Things I have achieved so far today…

Pissing off the cat because I’ve run out of cat food but I’m too lazy to get dressed and go out to buy any.

Early morning phone sex with D. Today I was a sex-trafficked Polish brothel slave and he was an undercover policeman promising to help me get my passport back so I could go home for Christmas, but only in return for sexual favours. I showed him a high degree of sexual favouritism so I remain optimistic about the return of my passport despite the fact that his fantasy alter ego left me handcuffed to the bars on my window, triple locked in my bare bedroom and impaled on a gigantic vibrator that’s crudely adapted from a cattle prod and plugged into the mains.

Random internet stuff. Strictly speaking I should be looking at online library resources but what I’ve actually done is several quizzes on HelloQuizzy, which is where my quiz (above) is hosted. From this I’ve learned that in the female submission test I rank as ‘slave’; I score 84 for experience in the anal sex test; and in the Roman world I’d be a brothel girl.

Now I think I’m going to waste some more time by crawling back into bed with the disgruntled cat and giving some close attention to the benefits of being a Roman brothel girl with a special talent for (and Double Discount Saturnalia Sale of) anal sex.

Glossy, Stretchy, Sex Shop Feel

D weighed in on my moral dilemma about the £1,000 last night, or rather the £947 it has now become – you see how my moral reserves were crumbling already?

“I think you should spend it all on sex toys and saucy underwear.”

“Tell me, when you’re miles away in Suffolk and you think about me, do you ever imagine me doing anything other than being laced tightly into corsets and whipped?”

“I don’t understand the question. Of course that’s how I chiefly imagine you…with a small sub-section of my imagination devoted to occasions when you’ve made an especially nice pudding or just stepped out of the bath all oiled and perfumed.”

Well, he’s virtually ordered me to go shopping and, as a good submissive little girlfriend, I have no option but to get myself down to Dalston. Yes, I know Dalston sounds unlikely, but nearly a year ago now I coveted a PVC skirt belonging to a girl at a party and she gave me the address of the workshop in Dalston that makes them.

So here I am, on a cold afternoon, muffled up in a woolly hat and mittens and not feeling much like a sex kitten, standing in Dalston Lane and peering up at the crumbling Georgian terraces above the shops, looking for any signs of a fetish gear sweatshop.

In fact, once I’d overcome my nervousness and actually rung the bell, climbing up the creaking wooden stairs to an airy room, everything was fine. There was no sweatshop, no gimp-masked slave driver, just some friendly fashion students, interested in how I’d heard about them and pleased to make tea and sit around watching me try things on.

Yes, that’s right, they sat and watched me. It was a bit unnerving to start with but after a while I realised that they’re working with fairly unyielding materials that need good tailoring and they know what they’re talking about. So I forgot the whole ‘standing in my knickers in front of a roomful of people eating chocolate biscuits’ thing and started listening to their advice.

I fell in love with a black PVC shirt – a classic fitted shirt shape with a collar and long sleeves with cuffs, all fastened with pop studs, which I imagine will go down well with its target audience. The tension between the primness of the style and the glossy, stretchy, sex shop feel of the material is what makes it irresistible. It follows the curve of my hips and waist, molding itself round my breasts, the light catching its curves and wrinkles as I move.

I tried it on with a matching, knee length pencil skirt, stretched skin tight across my buttocks, rolling with them as I walk, pulled taut across my thighs with every step. It’s exactly like the one I coveted and when I got home I tried it on with lots of different things from my wardrobe, to see the effect. As I type, I’m wearing it with fishnet stockings, a blue t-shirt with a 1940s style picture of the Virgin Mary and a glittery sequined jacket.

Clearly recognising in me a girl who doesn’t know when to say no, they dragged out great armfuls of things for me to look at but, having found my perfect outfit I had lost interest in buying anything else. Except for the black patent leather court shoes with red straps and heel. And the purple satin corset with steel boning and front fastening with back lacing. But that was absolutely all.

It occurs to me as I write this that I’ve failed. D specifically asked for “sex toys and saucy underwear”. Only the corset counts as underwear but as I intend to wear it as outerwear…hmm, being a good submissive little girlfriend is more difficult that it appears. Yes, I’ve spent money I indirectly earned from having sex with a stranger on fetishwear to amuse my boyfriend, and that’s a good thing. But I haven’t followed his instructions to the letter, and that’s a bad thing that’s probably going to earn me some form of punishment. Unless, as well as the fetish gear I also buy sex toys and saucy underwear…golly, it’s a good job I’ve got, well only £787 left now.

Face The Day

I’m supposed to be spending all day shopping for Christmas, which I have already sabotaged by spending the whole morning asleep. This is of course all D’s fault for staying much longer than he should have done last night. He says it’s all my fault for flinging my arms around his ankle forcing him to drag me naked down the corridor wailing, “Nooooooo, don’t goooooo! Stay and fuck me again!” (I exaggerate, but only slightly.)

I have a faint red mark on each of my wrists from the belt he wrapped around them, buckling its ends to the side of the bed as I knelt up, my face against the bed clothes, my arms drawn down between my legs and my bottom in the air.

I have a deeper red mark on each of my buttocks from his hand as he smacked them hard with loud cracks, making them shudder as his thighs slammed against mine, thrusting his cock in hard while I gasped out, “Yes, yes, yes…”

I have a well-fucked look on my face as I sit here thinking about kneeling on the hard tile of the shower, my knees aching, my cheek bulging with his cock, my wet hair wound into a coil, twisted around his fist as he leans back against the wall, rocking my head back and forth, rolling it around his cock.

And, as I look more closely in the mirror, I notice I still have spunk in my hair. I really must have another shower, get dressed and face the day.

Burning

At the end of a tiring and uneventful job doing silver service for a ballroom full of corporate lawyers I discover my locker has been broken into and my bag pinched. I am without purse, phone, door keys, meds, nearly full bottle of Coco Chanel and charm bracelet my dad gave me when I was 15. I’m tired and so I just stand in the middle of the changing room and cry while everyone else tiptoes around me, gingerly getting their coats and shuffling off home. I don’t tell anyone what’s happened because I’m too upset and so I suppose they imagine I’ve just been dumped by my boyfriend and discovered I’m pregnant or I’m just so radioactively depressed that I rend my clothes and wail in the street.

Finally, with red eyes and smudged make up, I shrug on my coat without changing out of my waitress dress and go and stand with my hands thrust crossly in my pockets in the foyer of the hotel, glaring at the carpet until it begins to swim before my eyes.

I can’t do this forever and soon people on the desk are whispering to each other and the concierge hovers at my shoulder. Nobody knows what to do with a distressed woman; he keeps going to put his hand on my arm and then fluttering away again as though I’ll crumble into ashes if he touches me.

I don’t know who to get them to phone and I can only remember D’s number, Lynda’s number and the number of the Lebanese take away in Finsbury Park. Of the three, I choose Lynda, who doesn’t quite manage to hide her irritation that I’m having a crisis in the middle of one of her boyfriend J’s rare days off which will now be partly spent on collecting me from the West End and breaking into my house.

I sit on the hotel steps, hugging my knees and enjoying the misery of being cold while I wait for J to turn up. Instead, a police car arrives. J has obviously decided to stay tucked up in bed with a warm Lynda and just called in a favour from another station. I can’t say I blame him. I climb in the back without saying anything and let them tease me all the way home.

Actually, once we’re home I can see the advantage of having a uniformed officer shin up my drainpipe and force the bathroom window over having J do it in plain clothes. I am perhaps not as grateful to them as I ought to be and once they’ve gone I soak in the bath and then phone the bank and my doctor.

I’m in my dressing gown, wondering if tea time is too early to go to bed, when the doorbell goes. For some mad reason I think it’s going to be the police officers again and I open the door frowning. It’s D, who has a shift off and has driven all the way to London to see me for two hours before driving all the way back. I fling my arms around him and burst into huge, hiccuping sobs.

Laughing, he lifts me and I wrap my legs around his waist as I blurt out the story of my day. He tumbles me onto the sofa, stretching out on top of me and kissing my blotchy, teary, snotty face, barely brushing my skin with his lips. His body is trembling and his cock is digging into my belly and I lie there thinking, “I want…” and then wondering what I want.

I want to lie trapped under his hot, trembling heavy body for ever. I want him to impale me with a single thrust of his cock so savage that I explode into a firework burst of orgasm and die instantly. I want to feel his hand on my throat, slowly tightening, squeezing the breath out of me as he looks into my eyes, silently asking my permission. I want to kneel at his feet, kissing and sucking on his toes, begging him to let me suck on his cock. I want to have his baby. I say this last one out loud.

He stops kissing me and looks down into my face, amused. “Do you want a girl or a boy?”

“Six girls and one boy.”

“Why one boy?”

“Someone’s got to inherit the tile.”

“I hate to break it to you, Lu, but I don’t have a title.”

“Don’t you? Well in that case I’ve changed my mind, I don’t want your baby after all.”

He kisses me, a hard-soft, fierce-gentle kiss, and I feel my cunt liquify as I dig my fingertips into his shoulder blades and arch my back. I gasp as he pulls away.

“We’ll do all that Lucy, but not just yet, there’s no hurry.”

And I nod, and give a little smile and slip my dressing gown off over my shoulders. But secretly I know there is a hurry, because my need is burning.

Spreading My Legs For A Stranger

Now here’s a moral dilemma we can all get our teeth into. The agency rang me yesterday to say they had something for me and I popped in to collect it today, assuming it was something I’d dropped somewhere. They gave me a brown envelope addressed ‘to the girl with the tattoo’. Inside was a note from the husband of trophy wife who fucked me in the boathouse. I’m too cross to quote it but the general thrust was ‘let’s keep this between ourselves, shall we.’ Now I’ve blogged it already, so it’s a bit late for that, but what he actually means is ‘for God’s sake don’t tell my wife’ which I had absolutely no intention of doing. And to make sure I held my tongue he’s stuffed in £1,000 in brand new £50 notes.

I think a number of contradictory things about this, in no particular order.

How dare he, how dare he, assume I’m a person who needs buying off.

Even if I was, what makes him think, £1,000 would be my price?

He could get a comfortable night in a West End hotel with a call girl for that kind of money.

£1,000 would pay off my credit card.

Does it count if the money is for my silence not for my body?

I’m tempted to slog all the way out to Marlow, ring the doorbell and tell his wife, “I’m returning your husband’s money.”

He must be scared.

Although I feel very cross indeed about this, I can also see that he has a lot to lose and probably hasn’t thought this through. Apart from anything else, if I was going to cause trouble for him, all £1,000 would achieve would be to make me realise I could get a lot more than that out of him.

But I’m tart-with-a-heart-of-gold, me. I’ve already decided that I’m going to contact him through the agency and tell him to stop worrying. Of course, that might just be licence to do it again with another girl but I’m in no position to judge anyone else’s sexual continence. I’m undecided about the money. It’s sitting on the table, looking at me.

It’s making me think about that day again and my pussy’s getting wet as I remember peeling off in the cold boathouse, lying back and spreading my legs for a stranger. Oh god, I want to get fucked tonight.

In Soho

It’s Christmas and that means lunch in Soho with Rupert. Rupert is my godfather though I’ve never been sure why because he’s never brought me up in the ways of any church, always forgets my birthday and is the last person you’d think of calling in a crisis. Still, he was very good at taking me to age-inappropriate restaurants when I was little (I threw up calves liver and onions in the Savoy Grill Room when I was six) and he takes me out every year when term ends just before Christmas.

Today it was to L’Escargot and because I’m still feeling a bit fat after it all, here’s what I had: crab lasagne with lemon and fennel and a ‘cappuccino’ of shellfish (this was frothy soup in a cup); roast sea bass with herb gnocchi (which I don’t like and hadn’t spotted lurking on the menu) and a wild mushroom sauce; pear tarte tatin and blackberry crumble (because I couldn’t decide between the two); champagne, half a bottle of Pouilly-Fume and two glasses of amaretto. After which I sat hiccoughing happily under the Picasso sketches and listened to stories about the various ways my dad was disreputable as a young man.

On the way home Rupert decided he was going to buy me a present from Agent Provocateur. I did about eight seconds of “Oh no, you shouldn’t really” but never actually stopped heading towards the shop door. I now have two very beautiful, very expensive slips, one white and one black, filmy and sheer with lace trim, slinky and sexy and adult – not in a sleazy way but just grown-up sexy. Sadly tonight I have no one to wear them for but I’ve hung them on hangers hooked over the top of the wardrobe door so I can gaze at them.