Lucy's Bedroom

Not At My Most Fragrant

I’m happily electro-popped out, even though my feet are so crippled by unsuitable shoes that I’m like the girl in The Red Shoes who danced until she was in such agony she begged the executioner to chop off her feet. I’m also drunk enough to have needed to wee in an alley. I blame bottled lager and its general incompatibility with the female bladder.

Danny (who’s my imaginary friend when it comes to electro-pop) gallantly guarded the alley for me. And then for four other girls we don’t know. After a bit he blatantly turned round and watched, commenting, “I don’t know why some men are prepared to pay for this sort of thing, it’s not very interesting.”

We walked to Holloway, me in bare feet, except for when he gave me a piggy back across Holloway Road and I squealed like a stuck pig, convinced he was going to drop me under a bus.

I’m typing this in his back bedroom, not at my most fragrant. My t-shirt smells of sweat and lager and, well, I weed in an alley so you can use your imagination about the rest. I don’t care; this is what gigs smell like.

Click here, because you've forgotten how good this is.

    

The First Day Of Spring

The first day of spring has put me in an unassailably good mood. I’ve emailed my essay to my tutor, stomped across Hampstead Heath with a packet of cheese sandwiches and a Bounty bar, got the bus all the way to Knightsbridge to buy good things from Hotel Chocolat (chocolate spread and Kirsch cherries) and now I’m home again and contemplating a cake for tea. I may make an extra nice one and not tell D about it because he was so mean to me yesterday.

Tonight, I’m going to The Forum in Kentish Town to see Sparks. In honour of the 1970s-ness of this I was going to sport a gold zip-up jacket originally belonging to my step mother, but as this came from Biba and is proper vintage I’ve decided it’s too precious. Instead I shall be dressing in clothes more suited to having beer tipped over them and getting severely crumpled in the press of sweaty bodies.

So, if you’re going too, I won’t be the girl in the gold jacket, but if you recognise me anyway, why not come and press your sweaty body up against mine?

Friday Night

After a day in the library I’m home late. Not ‘late’ late, just later than I said I’d be. In my absence, D has ravelled the day into a set of events so complex and interlocking that my lateness causes the world to tilt on its axis and everyone living in New Zealand falls off (or something).

So I walk in the door with cartoon birds twittering around my head, full of amusing library anecdotes (not really, but sometimes you can tell people dull stories that have the shape and form of funny ones and they don’t notice the difference) only to discover I now live with Mr Rochester.

He glowers and pushes past me up the stairs, calling over his shoulder, “You’re late!” I wave my Oyster Card at him and start to tell him about how I thought I’d dropped it in the library but I didn’t realise until I got on the bus and then what happened was…

He’s not listening. He runs back downstairs and pushes past me again. I follow him, still bravely trying to drum up some comedy from the bus driver who wouldn’t let me off the bus even though I blatantly hadn’t paid my fare. D scowls, shrugging on his coat and, apparently, all the cares of the world. “I really don’t have time for this nonsense, Lucy”

And he grips me by the arm, propels me into the sitting room, tips me over the arm of the sofa and starts tugging down my jeans, hauling my knickers down with them. “Hello,” I think, “this is looking up...” But it really isn’t.

He whacks my bum hard with the flat of his hand, slapping loudly against my skin as he wallops faster, switching from one buttock to the other. There’s nothing teasing or erotic about this spanking; this is a stinging, humiliating spanking and I hold my breath, flinching from each smack as my flesh glows hot and tender.

He finishes and I gasp, breathing raggedly now. I can feel my face is burning as I twist awkwardly, trying to look back over my shoulder at him but getting caught up in my jeans. By the time I’ve kicked my way out of trouble he’s gone, slamming the front door behind him.

Bastard. I stand in the shower, both hands rubbing my bum as I lean my forehead against the tiles. My crossness battles my horniness and wins so I’m going to eat fried food and watch telly. My Friday night.

Twittering Inanely

I have been dragged kicking and screaming towards some technology and now have a Twitter account.  I’ve probably done it wrong, have been too lazy to spend much time looking for people I know who have Twitter accounts and am certain to update it around six times before completely losing interest.  But if you’re a crazed stalker (or just stalker-curious) and would like to know when I’m on the bus or eating toast then this is your lucky day.

Actually, almost any time I’d be inclined to update it, I should really write “I’m sitting at my computer updating this to avoid writing a history essay” so if I go quiet, just fill that in for yourselves.

Scroll down and look left.

Rampant Materialism

It’s highly unusual for my godfather, Rupert, to make more than one appearance in my life per year – and I suppose he still hasn’t, as the last time was before Christmas last year. He telephoned out of the blue and announced he was taking me shopping for a birthday present and seeing as the last time he bought me anything it was from Agent Provocateur, I decided it would be terribly churlish to appear ungrateful.

Well bless him; he excelled himself this time with the Chanel Boutique in the Brompton Road. I felt desperately out of my league and about a foot shorter than any of the willowy shop girls (which is a pejorative term for them, I know, but I had to keep reminding myself that’s what they were, not some race of super-beings descended from Olympus on a cloud to make me miserable about my thick ankles).

Any men reading can probably tune out now (except the cross-dressers among you) as this is going to be one of those posts where I just list expensive frocks I now own and then look smug.

I took quite a bit of persuading to try on a suit, having initially gravitated to the dresses. The Chanel suit is such an icon, such a fashionista weapon that I couldn’t imagine squeezing my tattoos and big bum into it without looking like a bag of laundry. Oh, how wrong I was. These clothes are miraculous; they’re works of art. All the boxiness of the Jackie Kennedy era is gone and instead they flow like water over your body. I look taller, slimmer, more mature, more soignée than I imagined possible.

I’m the greedy owner of (any men who didn’t heed the earlier warning, really, this is your last chance) a black linen and cotton mix square-cut jacket with white collar and cuffs and concealed buttons and a matching tulip-cut skirt with a hem 4 inches above the knee. I also have a white georgette crepe blouse with pearl buttons; a tapered pencil skirt in black stretch jersey; black 4.5 inch pumps with a baby pink toe cap; and a classic black quilted leather handbag with chain strap.

I tried on a beautiful full length empire line dress in black tulle with a black satin bow and floating tulle panels. Tulle (for anyone who’s having trouble keeping up) is like gauze, translucent but usually worn layered over an opaque lining for modesty. Except in this dress, which I realised in the changing room was disturbingly see-through. The black satin bow was the only thing covering my breasts, and even then, if I’d breathed out it would have been “Nipples ahoy!”

“Are you all right in there?”

“Erm…it doesn’t really fit. No, I’ll just take it off.”

Because that sort of thing’s alright for an anecdote here, but it doesn’t do to frighten an aging godfather before he’s deployed his credit card.

Now all I need is for D to take me to smart enough places to wear all this. I did explain this to him, but as I was cooking dinner wearing only the pumps at the time, I fear I may have to repeat myself.

Key of the Door

I turned 21 in some style, in a rather fine Art Deco suite in Claridges. This was lovely and unexpected as we’d discussed a party but agreed to put it off until after I’ve finished with all this hospital nonsense and we’re feeling a bit more party-ish.

Instead, I had 21 white roses delivered to my suite by a butler (I was very excited about having a butler but then couldn’t think of anything to ask him to do for me), then we had afternoon tea, with a bewildering choice of 30 different teas and scones with clotted cream and jam infused with some more tea. I suggested we ask how many different types of tea we could choose from to infuse our jam but D told me to behave or we were going home.

Feeling fat, I had a massage, pedicure and eyelash tinting. D slightly disapproves of the eyelash tinting as it means no blow job-induced mascara-streaked cheeks for a while. We walked in Hyde Park and then back to the hotel for dinner in the Reading Room, which is dark and intimate, followed by cocktails in the tiny cocktail bar. We sat on stools at the horseshoe-shaped marble bar and drank Martinis with a splash of absinthe.

D got a bit frisky and slid his hand up my thigh beneath my wraparound skirt (my wardrobe doesn’t live up to Art Deco hotels, so I’d gone for a sort of 1970s Biba-style 1930s tribute, with my favourite purple wraparound dress, black platform shoes and my hair up, which I was drunk enough to believe looked glamorous). The skirt fell open a little, flashing some stocking top and bare thigh. I left it were it was, peeping at D over the top of my cocktail glass as I sipped my drink. He stroked his thumb across bare flesh and breathed absinthe in my face like the drunken old lecher he is.

In the lift, he leaned in for a snog but then, “Hold the lift!” and some Americans got in. Americans are more polite than we are and they thanked us and asked us if we’d had a nice evening and where did we come from? We did our best to sound sober and upright and answer all their questions, while D grabbed a handful of my arse and squeezed it through my dress.

Back in our bedroom, we were far too drunk and full of food for anything more energetic than holding our tummies and groaning, but it didn’t matter. We lay side by side on the bed and had a “Do you remember when…” conversation and I was very happy.

Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!

I have a new heroine from history, Theodora, wife of the Roman Emperor Justinian, who rose from being a courtesan.  Among her many pastimes, according to Procopius of Caesarea, she would appear naked on stage, have slaves scatter grains of barley on her body and allow trained geese to peck her.  I really admire the Romans’ innovation in the field of perversity.

Naturally, this leads to me annoying D while he’s trying to read the paper.  “Would you like me more if I trained geese to peck grains of barley off my naked body?”

 “Yes.  No.  What are you talking about?”

 “Not here, because we’d have to hoover a lot of it up afterwards, but on stage.”

 Long pause while D pretends he’s not listening.  Finally he cracks.

 “Is there any money in it?”

 “There’d be an initial outlay on geese.”

 “But after the start-up costs?”

 “Depends how you market it.”

 Another long pause.  Is the conversation over?  No, it isn’t.

 “I think your business model is wrong.  You increase your overheads with every additional animal and it would take, let’s say, six geese at least to make the act work.  For the same money, you could have a Great Dane…”

 “Or a snake!”

 I’ve been thinking about this recently.

 “No, listen.  Snakes are the coming thing.  They’re easily portable, double as stripping accessories and bondage restraints and if you had a really big rattlesnake…”   

 “Plus they have those flicky tongues.”

 “Yes!  Yes, my point exactly!  So, can I have a snake for my birthday?”

 “You mean you want me to take back the geese?”

 “Yes please.  But not the Great Dane.”

 “What about the donkey?”

 “The donkey will just have to wait its turn, I’m busy.”

Lucy's Tummy Does A Little Somersault

I was woken by the sound of D showering next door and for a while I lay in bed happily listening. There’s something about the sound of someone showering that holds the promise of all sorts of good things. And since working on ICU, D tends to come home tired, but a bit wired as well; definitely in need of something to burn off a little excess energy.

Eventually, I called out to him, “Are you oiling yourself up in preparation for being my abject sex slave?”

There’s a pause. The water goes off. “I don’t know what makes you think you’re going to be in charge, lady. Get on your hands and knees with your arse in the air.”

Obediently, I kneel up on the bed, wiggling my bum in his direction as he walks into the bedroom. He snaps at it with a damp towel and I flinch and giggle as he kneels up behind me, his semi-hard cock pressing into the crack of my buttocks, his hands cupping my tits as he lies along my back, kissing my neck.

“As your doctor, I can confirm my examination shows you in urgent need of a dose of at least twelve strokes of the cane, to be administered almost immediately.”

My tummy does a little somersault and my clit tingles. It’s a long time since we’ve played this game and I’m very excited. The bed bounces and I bounce with it as D climbs off to fetch the cane. I curl my fingertips into the bedclothes, settling my knees slightly further apart and licking my lips. Suddenly a stripe of burning pain cuts across the sole of my foot and I half gasp, half squeal, turning my head to look back over my shoulder at him, my arms and legs trembling.

He’s frowning down at me, swishing the cane loudly through the air, his cock rigid and menacing now. Fuck, he’s gorgeous. He gently lays the cane flat against the sole of my other foot and I grit my teeth and screw my eyes tight shut, waiting for the flash of pain. He makes me wait, murmurs, “Nice and hard…” and then I yelp as it slices across my instep.

I’m still twisting my foot, rotating it at the ankle, wriggling my toes as it throbs when he places the cane carefully against the top of my thighs, just under the curve of my arse. He lifts it and places it back, lifts it and places it back. I can hear his breathing and I bury my face in the bedclothes, breathing along with him, tensed.

The first swipe is hard, I flinch before it lands, squealing and writhing as my flesh reddens and my blood pounds through my veins. He grabs hold of my thigh and hauls me back into position, slicing the cane again across exactly the same spot. My lips tremble as I gasp and my eyes prickle hot with tears.

He snatches a handful of my hair, pulls me up onto my knees and barks, “Hands on head!” Shaking, I obey and, still tugging at my hair, he lands four strokes in quick succession, two on the swell of each buttock. My back arches as I pull away and he swipes at the hollow of my back as I grit my teeth and hiss air through them, gasping it out again as I feel the stripe glow hotly.

He lets me go and I slump forwards onto the bed. He kneels beside me, cupping my cheek and lifting my face from the pillow to feed the head of his cock into my mouth. I swirl my tongue around its head, fluttering its tip into the slit, hollowing my cheeks as I suck hard on it, letting it pop from between my lips. D watches me, tapping the tip of the cane against the bed. I try to count, my head a bit fucked up, seven strokes, seven, five more to go.

He rolls me onto my back, my head propped up on the pillows, straddles my face, his cock bouncing off my cheek. I lap and suck on his balls, tight in my mouth as he strokes his cock. The stripes on my flesh are pulsing gently now and I spread my legs wide, feeling my sticky, swollen pussy lips slowly peel apart.

Shit, I don’t want to play this game anymore, I want to fuck. I let his balls slide from my mouth, stretching my neck to lick along the shaft of his cock, kissing and nibbling at it, gazing up at him hopefully and mouthing, “Fuck me…”

He rolls off me onto his back and I scramble on top, sinking down with a single thrust onto his cock, shuddering and arching my back as I impale myself. Then I lean forwards again, fingers busy between the folds of my cunt as I start to ride him with fast, smooth strokes, lifting high up on his cock, watching it slip out wetly almost to its tip before I slam back down on it, my thighs slapping against his. D lets me do all the work, only reaching up to cup my tits, letting them bounce against his hands, then squeezing them, kneading and pinching, stretching my nipples out between finger and thumb then letting go and watching my tits jiggle.

I cum, panting and shivering, the muscles deep inside my cunt clenching and spasming uncontrollably against his cock. His face is flushed; he’s close. I slither down his body, both fists wrapped around the base of his cock, jerking it into my open mouth as I tease its tip with my tongue. He stiffens, grunts, his spunk arcs into my face, drips onto my tongue, I smear it across his cock as I slurp hungrily at it, squeezing the last drops of spunk onto my bottom lip.

He’s propped up on his elbows now, watching me, breathing hard. “You see? This is what happens when I don’t punish you regularly; you turn into a cock-sucking little slut.” And he grips my arm, dragging me off and around the bed until I’m bent over its foot. He snatches up the cane that’s tumbled to the floor and, with no teasing, no ceremony, gives me six hard strokes, so fast I can’t catch my breath between them. I’m left red-faced and gasping, dancing from one foot to the other as I try to ease the burning, blinded by the tears in my eyes.

D wraps his arm around my waist and propels me into the bathroom. We stand before the mirror and he wipes away the rivulets of water from the steam of his shower. I blink the tears from my eyes, my lashes wet and sparkling with them and look at my pink face, streaked with dried spunk. I feel ashamed at my lack of self-control, my desperate need for humiliation. I rest my hot forehead against the glass as D strokes my red stripes. “I’m going to bed. Wash your face.”

Spiked

My dad went home to France today, an event that officially signals the end of this phase of the crisis. D has spent the day asleep because he’s on nights tonight and I’ve spent the day reading the same paragraph three times before I can understand it and then falling asleep with my mouth open and drool dripping down my chin. My concentration is completely shot to pieces since I came out of hospital. I’m only two months away from exams but I’m going to have to hope I can pick up enough marks with some brightly-coloured crayon drawings to obviate the need to write anything coherent.

Today’s papers are full of a London taxi driver who has been convicted of 19 rapes of drugged female passengers, but may have committed (depending on which paper you believe) 100-200 others. How do they know? Surely they’re just plucking that figure out of thin air? All the women were drugged with a mixture of ‘over the counter substances’ which none of the papers have been irresponsible enough to name, but The Guardian has published a nice big photograph of some evidence taken from his taxi which quite clearly shows you what it is, in case you were planning to try it yourself at home.

All the women had been drinking. None of today’s coverage says ‘and so they’re at least partly to blame, don’t you think, hmm?’ but you can bet your shirt that the fuck-witted females who write the Sunday columns will cover that one in salivating detail.

I had my drink spiked once, nearly two years ago now, ‘for a laugh’ by someone at a party. I’ve always heeded all the lessons about never leaving your drink unattended and never accepting drinks off strangers, but this wasn’t a stranger, it was the brother of one of my friends who I’ve known since I was 11.

One minute I was feeling fine, the next my legs were very slowly buckling under me, I had double vision, an urge to vomit and any movement I made was jerky and uncoordinated. I know that people were talking to me but the sound was like listening to the PA at a rock festival on a windy day. I have no memory of getting home and woke up the next morning feeling like I’d been involved in an accident.

Apparently he’d been quite open about telling people at the party that he was the comic genius who’d put ketamine in my drink ‘because she looked a bit fed up’. I reported him to the police but as he no longer had any ketamine in his possession and told them he’d been lying when he told people he had, there was nothing to be done. I don’t see that friend any more because she was so angry with me for reporting her brother to the police; which shows you that being a moron isn’t a male preserve.

In Need of a Wee

I wake up at 3am in need of a wee. This sends D into a small panic. “Where are you Lucy? Are you alright?”

“Shut up and go away, I’m weeing.”

“Are you weeing more since you had the catheter out? Is it uncomfortable when you wee?”

“Stop being a doctor and go away.”

We’re both wide awake and with jangly nerves now. I suggest going back to bed for a hand job and a story. Unfortunately, my story is about an evil doctor who has his wicked way with female patients in intensive care by drawing the curtain around their beds, putting a tube down their throats so they can breathe but not speak and then spiking them with adrenaline at the moment of orgasm. This doesn’t calm D down an awful lot.

We have a bath, because that sends you to sleep. I sit facing him with my legs wrapped around his waist and I soap his cock with both hands while he kisses me and kneads my soapy tits. He cums suddenly, making me shriek with laughter as a spurt of spunk hits the underside of my chin and trickles down my neck.

“Sorry, I’m still a bit tense.”

We have a cup of cocoa, because that sends you to sleep. Wrapped up in our dressing gowns, I sit on his knee in the kitchen while we blow on the hot cocoa to stop a milk skin from forming. D demonstrates that his is still too hot to drink by whisking my dressing gown open and pressing the hot mug against my tummy. I yelp and spill cocoa down my cleavage, which D kindly licks up for me, including making sure none has dribbled down my tummy or between my thighs or into the folds of my cunt. I wrap my legs around his neck, grinding his face into my cunt and biting my lip as his tongue flutters deeper. I suddenly break out into a sweat and cum sharply, almost painfully, writhing away from his tongue as it drums on the tip of my clit.

Its dawn and I’m running out of things to do because they send you to sleep, but D can think of one more thing that usually sends him to sleep. I wrap my arms and legs around him, holding on tight while he pounds away at my swollen, squelching cunt, our sweat mingling as our bodies slide together, flesh slapping loudly against flesh. He braces his arms against the bed, looking down at me with teeth gritted and eyes glazed. I dig my fingernails sharply into his waist, dragging him into me, curling my back as I reach up to drag my teeth across the stubble on his chin, nipping and kissing his jaw as I mumble, “Fuck me harder, fuck me, fuck me, harder, faster, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…”

He screws up his face and groans, flooding me with spunk, my fingertips tracing the bulge of the vein on his neck. Then he flops on top of me, crushing me against the bed, his cock softening inside me as his breathing slows and deepens.

I’m wide awake, my heart racing. I shift his weight on top of me and his cock slips from my cunt, followed by a dribble of cold spunk. I can feel the bed sheet wet beneath my bum. The cat jumps on the bed, sniffs D suspiciously, and then snuggles down in the crook of my arm and I continue to lie awake, waiting for them both to wake up.