Lucy's Bedroom

Been An Awful Good Girl

Much less exciting day today. I made 48 mince pies (from the Nigella Lawson Christmas book, where all the recipes are just like real food, but with a pomegranate on top). I’ve also written all my Christmas cards and wrapped two presents, one of them a catnip mouse from my cat to someone else’s cat. I’m at that dangerous stage of Christmas planning where you’re quite pleased with yourself for having made such a good start, and in fact now you can sit back and have a little rest…until Christmas Eve when you realise you haven’t done anything else and now it’s far too late.

I phoned D to find out what he wants for Christmas but made the mistake of mentioning Nigella Lawson and pomegranates (because I test my material before I write it here). As a result, I didn’t really have his full attention and I’ve had to be quite stern when explaining to him that he can’t have her for Christmas.

This time last year I blogged my Christmas presents wish list (though I notice none of you bought me anything off it). Because all traditions have to start somewhere, for the second year running, here’s what I want for Christmas: a Braun MR5550CA Multiquick Professional Hand Blender; a red leather collar and lead with optional padlock from Stockroom; Penhaligon’s English Fern eau de toilette; travel Scrabble; Chanel Aqualumiere lip gloss in Party Red; crystallised ginger from Fortnum and Masons; the DVD of Les Parapluies de Cherbourg. And I’d like a Christmas stocking with an individual bottle of champagne, a bendy straw to drink it with, sugar mice, a kazoo and some satsumas. Thank you.

"Think of all the fellahs that I haven't kissed..."

Tales of the Riverbank

I’ve done the first of my run-up-to-Christmas jobs which was spoilt trophy wife in Marlow’s birthday bash. No indication of which birthday but she had two teenage sons so she won’t see 45 again, though this hasn’t stopped her dressing 22.

It occurs to me many of you won’t know where Marlow is or what it stands for. It’s a small town on the Thames between London and Oxford, stuffed full of that slightly grating ‘charm’ that makes parking so difficult. It’s the kind of place middle class Londoners move to when they’ve made a bit of money but don’t feel confident enough to scale the heights of proper country society. The men commute to the city, the children get sent away to boarding school and the women shop for organic artichokes and have their hair done.

Trophy wife graces a fairly palatial Edwardian pile with a garden that runs down to the river, some Arts and Crafts half-timbering and really frightening amounts of chintz. She is not made of chintz. No, she is armour-plated and orders us around like a sergeant major. Some of the girls get cross and upset about this but I shrug it off. If she had any self-confidence she wouldn’t feel the need to behave like this. Her bossiness is a sign of weakness.

Besides, I’ve spotted her two teenage sons by this time. Down from Harrow for the event, they dispose themselves languorously about the place with the negligent beauty of the boys in Michelangelo paintings. They smile slowly, with warm brown eyes twinkling as they watch us scurrying about, occasionally holding a door open for us or reaching for something on a high shelf with an air of quiet amusement.

I stand in the kitchen, polishing a tray of glasses with my eyes lowered, aware I’m being stared at. “I like your uniform,” says the older son. We’re all wearing black waitress uniforms with long sleeves and starched white collar and cuffs with a white apron over the top.

“I don’t know,” I reply, “I feel a bit buttoned up in mine.”

“Yes,” he says, looking me up and down, “I think that’s what I like.”

I go bright red, squeak, “I really must get on” and scurry out of the room with my tray of glasses (which, incidentally should be in the kitchen and now I’m going to have to find a reason to bring them back when he’s not looking).

In the scullery, which is where the food is being plated up and chill boxes full of canapés are being unloaded, the other girls are making a pet of younger son, who’s about 15.

“Have you got a girlfriend then?”

“Nice-looking lad like you, I bet the girls all fancy you.”

“Leave him alone (tousles hair) you’re making him blush.”

“You take no notice of them love (hug) they’re very bad women.”

All through this he dimples happily, shyly glancing down and wriggling like a puppy as they hug and pinch him.

There’s a final salvo of anxious shrieking from the hallway to indicate that trophy wife is ready and feels personally betrayed by the fact that we aren’t. Her husband makes his first, slightly weary, appearance, pops his head round the door and says, “How are you getting on, girls?” which of course works much better than yelping at us because he has a nice smile and the same twinkly eyes as his sons so of course for him we’re ready instantly.

It’s boring work, endlessly circulating with heavy trays of drinks and canapés, holding them uncomfortably high and swerving out of the way of braying idiots who can’t hold their drink. There aren’t even any good conversations to eavesdrop on as it’s all the state of the economy and who’s going skiing this year. I daydream about snatching one of the big circular metal trays off one the other girls, tipping everything off both trays, climbing on the table and clanging them together like cymbals before announcing to the stunned and silent guests that the house is surrounded by snipers and we’re going to execute one of them on the hour every hour until my demands are met. I’m not sure what my demands are. A boyfriend who lives in the same city as me and some new gloves would be nice. I laugh to myself and bow my head to hide it, then look up to see older son watching me.

Time for my break. I stand outside the kitchen door smoking and shivering and listening to the river. The door opens behind me and I jump. It’s trophy wife’s husband and he bums a fag off me, joking awkwardly about how much he hates this sort of thing and asking do I do this job all the time and do I enjoy it? Suddenly he says, “I like your uniform” and I look up, a bit startled to hear the same line from father as from son and to see really the same face looking down at me. He reaches out tentatively and takes my starched cuff between his finger and thumb, rubbing it. We both look down and watch him doing it and I realise I’m holding my breath. If I look up again, I’ll be saying yes.

As I look up, he slides his hand against mine, his fingers wind between mine and then he sets off briskly down a path that winds between the bins and the compost heap, past the garage block then down towards the boat house.

Inside the boat house, I lie on my back on the wooden jetty with a rowing boat bobbing beside me, the only light the grey winter light that bounces off the river outside, pours through the windows high up in the riverside doors and shudders against the raftered ceiling. My scratchy uniform is discarded and tossed in the boat, my knickers dangle from the end of an oar mounted on the wall and the straps of my bra are tugged down over my shoulders. I hug myself, shivering, my teeth gritted together to stop them from chattering, but not wanting to stop him as he buries his tongue deep in my cunt, the hard bridge of his nose rubbing against my clit.

Finally I can’t stand it any more and I drag him on top of me for warmth, unzipping his cock and moaning into his kiss as he slides into the sopping folds of my cunt. He fucks me artlessly, grunting as he stabs his cock into me, the wooden boards beneath us creaking and the rowing boat banging against the jetty.

Suddenly, with his face red, the tendons in his neck straining, close to cumming, he stops and whispers, “Is it OK?”

Is what OK, I wonder. Is it OK to fuck the hired help? Is it OK if she’s young enough to be your daughter? Is it OK to fuck her at your wife’s birthday party? Is it OK to assume you won’t catch anything off her (bit late for that as we’re condom-less)? Is it OK because she won’t get pregnant and come along with a financial claim that takes this house and wife and party and river off you? I plump for the last one and tell him to cum in my mouth, which he seems pleased enough with.

In the mini bus back to town, we swap notes. We seem to all have steered clear of older son but none of us is sure why. However little eighteen-year-old Daisy, who’s on only her second job with the agency, took a shine to younger son and sneaked up to his bedroom to give him his first ever blow job, so well done her. There’s a general consensus that trophy wife is having it off with one of the guests. I nod along in agreement at all the ‘little signs’ that apparently give this away, even though I didn’t see any of them. “Anyway, where did you get to, Lucy?”

“Hmm? Oh, nowhere, I just went out for a fag.”

Goodnight Bettie Page

Bettie Page, patron saint of pin-up girls, has died at the age of 85. In her honour, I'm typing this in a leopardskin bikini. I've spent some happy time today choosing a photo of her for my blog - she was a girl after my own heart, seldom pictured without a whip, ball-gag and some fabulous frilly knickers. I've chosen this one because her corset has a built in chastity belt and padlock, which is what I now want for Christmas.

More Gonzo Sex And Less Victoriana

I’ve been tremendously studious for several days and as a result am so clearly deserving of treats that I’m eating mashed banana on toast with cinnamon and honey. I’ve also been to the Woolworth’s closing-down sale and bought the biggest pick’n’mix bucket of foam shrimp and white chocolate mice. If I go into an insulin coma part-way through this post, you’ll know why.

I’ve had a good time and met people from history courses all over England and Wales. In between study groups we’ve been on ‘improving’ outings like the Byzantium exhibition at the Royal Academy (I saw Simon Schama in the street outside and excitedly ran down the road after him to get him to sign my t-shirt, to everyone’s great embarrassment, including his). We also went to see Oedipus at the National with Ralph Fiennes. I wasn’t the most embarrassing person in the building that time; the prize went instead to the very large contingent of schoolgirls who went “Oooooooooooo” when the lights went down.

I met a new tattoo friend, Charlotte, who has a beautiful seaweedy swirling design around her upper arm and shoulder that goes with her washed-out blonde beauty and huge, underwater green eyes. And I’m afraid I bore out a complaint from more than one acquaintance, that “you approach sex like a man” by immediately trying to get her drunk in the college bar so I could see her naked. She remained frustratingly oblivious to my intentions, insisting on inviting lots of other people as well as me to sprawl on her bed cluttering up the place and just generally preventing me from getting her knickers off. I finally slouched back to my own room in the halls of residence at 2 in the morning with the female equivalent of a hard on and phoned D. I’ll leave it up to you to imagine how pleased D was to be woken on a work night by my drunken and thwarted lesbian ramblings.

In more sober mood the next day, I called D again and we agreed that, as he’ll be back in London in January we’ll write off the time between now and then and start again properly then. This will give him an opportunity to untangle whatever it is he’s been up to in Suffolk while I haven’t been paying attention and it will give me an opportunity to…I don’t know what it will give me an opportunity to do. Lust after straight girls and get fat on cheap sweets if my recent track record’s anything to go by.

I’ve finally been invited somewhere for Christmas, so my family haven’t all forgotten me. My brother’s having open house with several waifs and strays invited, so I’ve accepted his pitying invitation but I’m toying with pretending to be sick at the last minute so I can sit up in bed eating bacon sandwiches and watching Wallace and Grommit without anyone to disturb me.

In the run-up to Christmas I’ve got several job offers from the agency because recession or no recession, capitalism always needs girls with big boobs. I’ve turned down anything that involves working in a department store because I’ve done that before at Christmas and I’m not stupid enough to do it twice. I have, however, said yes to silver service waitressing at two corporate lunches and some spoilt trophy wife’s bash in Marlow. And I’m doing the party of the unnamed 1980s pop star (unnamed for the purposes of blogging - obviously he does have a name otherwise that would have been very unkind of his parents). It sounds like an evening of wearily fending off wandering hands but the money’s good and several of the more entertainingly unhinged regular girls are doing that one so I’ll have someone to look out for me.

It’s always interesting to come back and see what’s been happening on my blog while I’ve been gone. I note my post about struggling to accommodate an over-sized vibrator has been more popular than my post about Little Dorrit. Hmm, must try to remember that; more gonzo sex and less Victoriana, not the other way around.

Youth and Corruption

I’ve driven all the way to Stratford and back for a distinctly second rate Romeo and Juliet and I’m very tired. Normally, I come out fizzing and excited and so I don’t notice the driving but today I couldn’t wait for the tiresome little teenagers to die so I could set off before the traffic got snarled up.

I’m going on a seminar thingy (it’s got a proper name but I can’t be bothered to get up and walk across the room to check what it is) so I’ll be busy until Wednesday. I feel like I should leave you with some exquisitely-written and yet totally saucy tales from my life to keep you going until then but in fact I’ve got a bit of a cough, the boiler’s pilot light isn’t coming on and, erm…that’s it, nothing else is happening to me right now.

I’m reading The Old Curiosity Shop which I’m enjoying for the wrong reasons. Oh I’m not enjoying sneering at the Victorian sentimentality or the ‘mystery-unravelled-by-numbers’ plotting. I’m not on the side of Oscar Wilde who wrote that you would need a heart of stone to read the death of little Nell without laughing. No, I’m reading it for Quilp and his frightened, submissive wife.

Quilp is a fantastic character, albeit floridly over-written. There’s actually no need for him to be the leering, hunchbacked dwarf that Dickens wrote (and really, Mr Dickens, why not give him leg callipers and an eyepatch while you’re about it, you just weren’t trying hard enough). And there’s certainly no need for him to be a caricature of a hook-nosed Jew, as he is in the illustrations. It’s not how he looks; it’s how he behaves that make him such an exciting monster.

He treats his wife with an over-emphatic, menacing courtesy, exacting precise and immediate obedience from her. She responds with a mixture of foreboding and terror and an earnest attempt to obey him for fear of worse to follow. His rage that she has invited a group of gossiping ladies to tea – spending his money on feeding them shrimp and watercress and perhaps giving away the secrets of their life together – is entirely sublimated into a snarling politeness that scatters the ladies, leaving his wife trapped. And his punishment, as she has chosen company, is to force her into his company, rooted, silent and motionless in her chair, barely daring to breathe, while he sits up all night, drinking gin and water and chain-smoking cigars.

I’m there, submissive on that hard-backed chair with Mrs Quilp, stifling my coughing as the room slowly fills with a fog of smoke, the clock loudly ticking away the minutes of my psychological torment as the sky outside the window turns watery grey and I wait for a sudden, violent outburst that may never come.

He has already invited poor, thirteen-year-old Little Nell to be the second Mrs Quilp, “should Mrs Quilp happen to die” and I’m rooting for her to say yes because I want Dickens to write about how he grooms her into his obedient slut. He has a rotting Thames wharf with a timber counting house that seems a suitable venue for some strenuous training and Nell is quite wide-eyed, solemn and virginal enough to make a very pleasing subject for corruption.

Maybe I am on the same side as Oscar after all. Wilde approved of both youth and corruption.

A Not Wholly Successful Piece of Networking

I attracted a very drunk man at dinner last night. Even though James was my walker for the evening in D’s continued absence, that didn’t deter very drunk man from following me into the bathroom, squeezing my tits and breathing stale wine into my face. I’m not sure what he imagined he was going to do; he was so incapable I was almost tempted to say, “Go on then, fuck me, I’d like to see you try.”

I didn’t because some of the other guests (none of whom I know very well) are in a position to give me bits of freelance work and I wanted to make a good impression, even after James had almost ruined my chances by cheerily telling everyone the striptease on the tube story. Maybe that’s what caught very drunk man’s attention?

I had a go at scuppering my chances on my own when I surreptitiously read a text from C, who had partly introduced me, which read, “They’re all cunts.” I had to cover my fit of giggles by pretending to cough and then say, “No, I’m fine, go on telling me about your mother, it must have been very sad…”

Talking of C, I’ve now seen a bit more of my work on the television and this time I didn’t feel such a strong urge to run away to sea and change my name. I’m guessing another 20 years or so and I’ll be able to watch without covering my face with a cushion.

15 Minutes

I’m on the tube. I’ve got a purple dress on a hanger, a shoulder bag, a rucksack, a ring binder and 15 minutes to get to dinner. I’ve managed to wash my hair, bent over a sink in the history department but its ends are still wet and I’m unfetchingly bundled up in jeans and jumpers. There’s nothing for it; I sit in the furthest corner of the carriage and tell James to keep watch.

Between Holburn and Chancery Lane, and half-hidden behind James’ overcoat, I strip off my jumper and struggle into the top half of my dress, tugging it down. As we head towards St Paul’s I yank off my boots and socks, stand up and quickly unzip my jeans, wriggling them off as I pull down my skirt. James helps me pull them over my feet and zips up my dress.

Then I make a mistake. With a choice between stockings and make up I go for make up next, quickly brushing out my hair and tying it back with a slide then peering into a tiny compact mirror, angled towards the light as I poke myself in the eye with a mascara brush. I look like a startled panda but it will have to do.

Shit, now I’m at Liverpool Street and suddenly it’s very busy but I can’t put it off any longer so I cross my legs and roll my stockings on. James smiles placidly at anyone who stares and begins gathering up the debris of my quick change act, stuffing disregarded clothes into bags.

We stand on the platform at Bethnal Green and I steady myself against his arm as I squeeze my feet into my shoes and put on lipstick.

“Well, will I do?”

James looks at me quizzically, makes me turn around. “I think you’ve got your dress on inside out Lu, but apart from that…”

“What!”

“I’m teasing, I’m teasing, you look like a very lovely plum, now hurry up, we’re late.”

Wow

Sex cult leader who paraded his girlfriend around on a leash is jailed for three years

Sex cult leader Lee Thompson was jailed for three years for forcing one of his lovers to have sex with other men against her will. The leader of a sex cult who paraded his girlfriend round a town centre on a leash has been jailed for three years.

Inspired by science fiction novels Lee Thompson, 34, launched the cult from his pebble-dashed semi-detached house in Darlington. His followers lead a sadomasochistic lifestyle inspired by a series of 1960s fantasy novels, Chronicles of Gor. In the books, written by US college professor John Norman, women are viewed as natural slaves to men.

Heavily-tattooed Thompson, a self-styled sex master, came to the attention of police when he paraded his girlfriend round the town on a leash as she wore a dog collar and wrist cuffs. Businesses in the town centre were incensed by his behaviour and the local butcher's banned him from his store.

Thompson claimed that his grandmother was a pagan high priestess and she passed on her powers to him. Yesterday he was jailed for three years for forcing one of his lovers to have sex with other men against her will.

At Teesside Crown Court, Thompson - who describes himself as a pagan - admitted two counts of procuring a woman to have sexual intercourse. On another occasion, Thompson could not afford to pay to use a computer in a London cyber cafe so agreed to a member of staff having sex with her instead.

When the cult was uncovered in May 2006, Thompson said no-one taking part in the master-slave relationships was harmed. 'I have been called sick but I don't think what I do is bad. There's no reason for people to be afraid of me. I'd die before I see anyone get hurt. Saying that, the girls will do everything they are told when it comes to sex, but it is all voluntary and all safe. Lots of girls want to come and try to find out about it. They think it's exciting, but it's hard work for everyone. Girls leave when they've had enough.'

Thompson's story made headlines across the world, he was courted by documentary makers and he even gave instructions on film on the Youtube website on how to be a sex master. He appeared on the Trisha TV show with a young trainee sex master called Zachary Nicodemous, 18, who has since left the cult.

Thompson moved to the West Midlands after he became too notorious in his hometown of Darlington. He has numerous tattoos on his face including a thick black tattoo on the left side of his face and a red triangular design in the middle of his forehead.
Dan Cordey, prosecuting, said the victim did not see money change hands but she believed Thompson was charging the men. 'The defendant always had plenty of money to buy drugs as a result,' Mr Cordey said. The men did not think she was effectively being forced to sleep with them.'

Sentencing, Judge Tony Briggs told him: 'What rather shouts out from the papers is you have an extraordinary ability and appetite for dominating and manipulating others.' Thompson had a conviction for serious sexual assault, and one for making threats to kill, for which he was sent for treatment to Rampton Secure Hospital. After the case Detective Constable Scott Denham said: 'He is a self-styled sex cult leader. He is a very intimidating character with a very forceful personality. He has children all over the world.'

Wow. I mean, wow.

First of all, let’s be clear, he’s dangerous enough for Rampton and he’s gone to prison for non-consensual sex, but still, wow.

I love the disparity between his ambitions and the suburban outrage caused in the local butchers. He’s a Nietzschian superman, master of women who lives in a pebble-dashed semi.

Being the Daily Mail (and by the way I’m sorry that this is the second reference in my blog to the Daily Mail – honestly I don’t read it, I’ve just been to the dentist again) they’ve been too squeamish to give me the details I crave.

Apart from the dog collar and wrist cuffs, was she wearing anything else when he paraded her through the town centre on a lead?

Where did the cyber café sex take place? Was it bent over a desk in the café? Did anyone capture it on web cam or live blog it?

And just how notorious is too notorious in Darlington? (Wikipedia can only offer up that it was on the route of the first railway journey in 1825 and earlier this year the local Woolworth’s burned down. Nothing seems to have happened in between.)

I hadn’t come across The Chronicles of Gor before, or indeed the concept of being a Gorean. Probably I’m the only person who doesn’t know this and the rest of you happily fill your lives with Gorean practices. It’s a bit confusing but as far as I can make out, being Gorean is seen by BDSM-ers as a subset of BDSM but not by Goreans who disdain the use of a safe word which BDSM-ers think is reckless but Goreans say isn’t because they don’t necessarily engage in games that involve pain and/or danger except when they do but anyway you don’t have to in order to be a Gorean. Or perhaps the other way round.

It’s a dom/sub game for people who never grew out of Dungeons and Dragons. Oh, and there’s a National Gorean Society which I like to picture having a society blazer and holding an annual village fete.

I found a description by a woman of life with her Gorean master and it sounds very dull. There’s a lot about being naked and on her knees at all times in his presence and having to ask permission to enter his bed (though she is better off than his No.2 woman who sleeps in a dungeon). And I don’t get it, where’s the fun in being a bit sub if it’s not a negotiation, a bit of a tease, if there isn’t tickling and disobedience?

You see, I’d make a terrible slave, too many jokes, not enough sleeping in dungeons.

13 Inches

I had to make my own entertainment today, sprawled on my bed with the cat sitting on a pillow watching with interest as I wrestled with a brand new acquired-by-accident vibrator. I say acquired-by-accident but it’s not as though I didn’t mean to buy a vibrator, having broken my trusty favourite (yes, I know, I know, I broke a vibrator, how big a slut am I?) it’s just that I got distracted by the picture on the website with the instruction ‘click to enlarge’ and was too busy sniggering to myself and thinking “If only it was that easy in real life” to realise that instead of buying a replacement for my pink glittery jelly 8 inch I’d bought its 13 inch big brother.

I’d like to point out that this is very big indeed but it’s not really the length that’s the problem – after all, there’s no law saying you have to stuff it all in – it’s the overall dimensions. I can’t actually wrap my fingers all the way around it and contrary to popular school playground mythology; someone who gets fucked as much as I do doesn’t actually have a twat like the Mersey Tunnel.

I had to content myself with rubbing its shaft between the folds of my pussy, lying on my back with my knees drawn up, groaning as I dragged it slowly along the sensitive underside of my clit, thrumming on a low speed. After a few minutes I rolled onto my knees, straddling a pillow with the vibe laid on it so I could wriggle down against it, fitting it snugly between the cheeks of my arse, its rounded base pressing against my cunt while I slowly squirmed and rubbed my clit with my fingers. Finally I flopped onto my back again, my hips propped up by the pillow and my legs spread high in the air as I turned the vibe up to full speed, gripped it near its head and circled its tip around my clit until, with my hips jerking and a series of small, breathy gasps, I started to cum.

Lying back with my blood pumping hard in my veins and my clit throbbing dully, I turned my head on the pillow to lick my juice off the vibe, stretching my mouth wide to try to suck its tip. It was too big. I bit gently into the spongy jelly and sighed.