Lucy's Bedroom

Prolonged Orgasmic Assault

The trouble with lying on your tummy on the bed revising is that once you’ve thought about the presence within arm’s reach of an 8 inch pink jelly vibrator in the bedside drawer, it’s very difficult to stay really focused on the social significance of printing in Georgian London.

I wouldn’t want you to get the impression I have poor powers of concentration but…oh, who am I kidding, I spent so long playing that I had to get up and take batteries out of the remote controls for the television and the DVD player. D can’t understand when he comes home why I’m in such an amenable mood and he can’t switch the news on.

As girls will tell you (if you ever bother to listen to us – mostly it’s just blah blah shoes blah blah calories blah blah why do I always have to tell you, why can’t you, just once, do it without being asked?) vibrations alone are not enough. If you’re going to scale the numbness of battery assisted masturbation you need a really reprehensible bit of fantasy to get you there.

So today, I’ve been abducted by crazed scientists and lashed to an unspeakable collection of mechanical and electrical devices to test the endurance of the human body under prolonged orgasmic assault. You’ll be pleased to hear I stood up to this surprisingly well and was indeed the only person in the lab not to be brutally mown down in the daring raid by masked terrorists who bustled me away in a truck to their secret desert training ground where by night I was staked out with tent pegs and entertained the troops and by day I was dragged to the punishment block to be soundly whipped by the sadistic but charismatic commanding officer.

D’s just come in and rifled through my toy drawer to salvage some batteries. He’s been very sniffy about my innocent, nay charming, fantasy. “It’s a bit of a cliché, don’t you think?”

“So what do you think about when you’ve been fucking for ages and you want to cum?”

He pauses. I can tell he’s deciding what to say.

“Sometimes…”

Definitely looking shifty now.

“Sometimes, when I’m fucking you I imagine I’m fucking someone else and you’ve burst in and caught us. And I don’t care that you’ve caught us because I’m showing off to you that I’m fucking someone else.”

Then he’s gone. And I’m not at all sure what I think about that.

A Warm Boyfriend And A Purring Cat

Everyone D’s ever met has called or texted him today in his capacity as doctor and cynic to say, “This swine flu; it’s all a lot of nonsense blown up by the papers, isn’t it?” Our answerphone message now says, “We can’t come to the phone right now but if you’d like a medical opinion on the risk posed by swine flu, you should be aware that predictions of epidemics carry large statistical margins of error.”

I don’t know if it’s the same everywhere in the world, but certainly in he UK, public trust of the media is at such a low ebb that if the four minute warning were broadcast we’d all just mutter, “Yeah, as if that’s going to happen” and scrabble around in the sofa cushions for the remote control. This isn’t to say there’s no evidence of hysteria. I tried to buy a face mask from the chemist (not because I think I need one but because it seemed an excellent way of annoying D) and they’d sold out! And just for a second a little frisson ran through me and I had to fight off the urge to sweep everything off the shelf into my basket and cry, “I’ll take it all!” It’s just as well I didn’t because no one needs that much evening primrose oil.

My chemist seems to sell almost nothing that’s actually been tested in a properly regulated clinical trial. The leaflet accompanying the evening primrose oil appeared to base its recommendations at least partly on the suggestion that it was used by James I. Now I’ve checked the plausibility of this (and when I say ‘checked’ obviously I mean ‘looked up on Wikipedia’).

The evening primrose (or Oenothera) arrived in Europe in 1614 (it visited Padua and by 1621 had made its way by coach and ferry to England). James I died in 1625. So it’s technically possible. But imagine if we made all our decisions based on the lifestyle choices of James I? We’d all be covered with goose fat and sewn into our clothes for the winter.

I’d draw all these disparate threads into a satisfying conclusion but I can’t be bothered tonight. I’m off to watch telly in bed with a warm boyfriend and a purring cat (or the other way round would be good too).  

 

Fishnets

I can’t remember now what my dream was about but we all woke from it with a jolt as I (apparently) yelped “No!” elbowed D in the ribs and kicked the cat off the bed. Everyone was unhappy. I had that odd, dislocated, ‘on the tip of my brain’ feeling as the dream slipped away. D had a bruised rib. And the cat, well the cat’s always unhappy these days, I blame Weltschmerz.

D was annoyed at being woken so early on a precious day off between shift changes and administered a long, hard hand spanking until my arse, thighs and pussy glowed pink and hot. I rolled onto my back, my face flushed, my hair mussed up and I felt the heat in his hand as he cupped my breast and bent his head to suck on my nipple.

He watched me dressing, choosing a pair of fishnet tights for me to wear, pulling them up over my knickerless bum, the pink flesh peeping through the diamond pattern. On the tube I leaned back against him, our bodies swaying with the train’s motion, his hand on my hip. He whispered in my ear, “I want to pull your skirt up round your waist and show everyone your spanked arse.” I smoothed my skirt down with both hands, keeping them there.

Back home, I sat on the stairs while he ripped the tights, tearing a hole that opened my cunt to his tongue. I wrapped my legs tightly round his neck, while he slid his hands under the cheeks of my arse, pulling me towards him and kneading my bruised flesh. I ground my cunt against his face, hissing at him, “Stick your tongue right up me, you horny fucker, lick me right out. Suck on my clit…oh fuck, yes!”

I could hear myself getting louder and D growing more urgent until he wrapped an arm round my thigh, pulling me with a bump down to the next step, lifting both my legs over his shoulders as he fumbled to unzip his cock and plunge it into my dripping slit with a grunt, pumping away at my cunt like a piston, my bruises turning to carpet burns as I let out little gasping moans with each thrust.

He pulled out, wanking the last few strokes and then spraying my cunt with spurts of spunk, soaking the ragged edges of the torn tights. I reached down and rubbed his cum into my cunt, circling my clit with my fingers, watching him watching me as I rocked, cumming in a long shudder. D frowned down at me, all seriousness, and then his face split into a delighted, sex-sated grin and he kissed the tip of my nose.

Responsible

We are the 11th most responsible people my friend Lynda’s parents know. Mind you, Lynda is only the 6th most responsible person they know. This is how far down the list we come when they need someone to water house plants when they’re away, which is always a flimsy excuse to use their swimming pool.

Surrounded on three sides by tall hedges and with a glass cover that steams up, this is a nice private place to splash around naked. I particularly like diving naked and D particularly likes bobbing around in the shallow end watching me.

We have races and D cheats, so I try to clamber onto his shoulders and he tips me off, screaming and swallowing a huge mouthful of water. When I complain about this, D points out that I should be well-practiced at swallowing huge mouthfuls by now and I raise an eyebrow archly and say, “Well I wouldn’t say huge exactly…” and get ducked for my efforts.

D floats on his back and I make a brave attempt to lick his cock but actually only succeed in capsizing us both. So we swap over and I float, with my arms and legs spread, while D negotiates licking my clit without also drinking dangerous amounts of chlorine. After a bit we give up and both float for a while, staring at the sky through glass streaked with rivulets of condensation. But then it’s time for underwater handstands in the shallow end, followed by another doomed attempt at an underwater blowjob and a lot of coughing.

Mindful that we should actually remember to water the house plants, we scuttle back to the house wrapped in towels. D raids the cocktail cabinet, making Manhattans, while I pad about the house naked with a watering can. There’s something very pleasing about being naked in a childhood friend’s parents’ house; you should try it.

After a couple of Manhattans each, and a brief interlude when I spin round and round in a revolving leather arm chair while D tries to throw maraschino cherries into my mouth, we lie on the rug and have a long, slow, grinding, intense fuck, breathing whiskey into each other’s faces. I cum in undulating waves, never quite scaling the peak but instead gasping and panting out the twitching convulsions of my cunt until I flop back on the floor, shoving D off me, spent.

D is not spent, and after a gentlemanly pause to let me recover (4 seconds) begins nudging my hip with his cock and urgently hissing, “Don’t fall asleep!” I roll to face him, draping my leg over his hip, his cock trapped between our bellies, and I squirm against him as we kiss, rhythmically rubbing my cunt against his shaft, sucking on his tongue as it forces deep into my mouth, remembering at the last minute that we’re screwing on someone else’s rug and slithering down his body to wank his cock into my mouth.

D lies on his back smoking one of Lynda’s dad’s cigars. I sit curled up beside him, stealing occasional puffs and tipping the ash into an ashtray balanced on his tummy. He gestures expansively with the cigar. “One day, I’m going to buy you a house with a swimming pool.”

“Good. Make sure you do it while I’m still lovely enough to run around naked.”

Lucy Solves The Problem Of Global Warming

It’s been a nice day today, the sun has shone intermittently and I’ve wrestled the cat for the hazy patch of sunshine on my bed. After a while, D came and stood in the doorway and stared at me (and at the cat, now curled up on the small of my back).

“You’re revising.”

“Yes.”

“And wearing shorts.”

This is true; I’m wearing pink velour shorts because I’ve been to my yoga class. D tickles the backs of my knees and I shriek and try to kick him while the cat meows crossly at us and stalks away. After a few minutes of this I actually can’t breathe any more from being tickled and I frantically do the ‘OK’ sign with my fingers, which is our ‘can’t speak’ safe word.

D kisses my tummy while I recover enough to say, “Do you ever worry that our relationship is almost wholly characterised by sex?”

D looks up, startled. “No, there’s only so much time in a day for worrying about things and if I worried that we had too much sex then I’d have to stop worrying about something else, like global warming. Think of the poor polar bears, Lucy, their ice floes are melting, melting I tell you! Surely one little fuck to stop global warming isn’t too much to ask of you?”

This isn’t a logical argument and doesn’t really deserve to be rewarded with sex but he already has his hand on my thigh and his thumbnail trailing along the seam of my shorts, so I pretend not to have noticed and let him peel my shorts off.

“Well, alright, as long as you promise it will stop global warming. I don’t want to hear anything more about it after this fuck…”

“I promise,” says the man with the erection, and we all know about that kind of promise, don’t we girls?

Vegan Lube

Organic vegan lubricant! How could I resist? Banish cow-murdering-hand-job-misery forever! In my excitement, I failed to buy the ‘regular’ organic vegan lubricant and instead came home with the ‘natural warming’ version. D has been very stoical about this. “No, no, the fact that it warms up when it comes into contact with my skin is something I’m entirely prepared to forgive you.”

Because I’m tremendously clumsy, a problem not made better by being slippery, I stumbled on a technique we haven’t tried before. It started out as losing my balance and putting a hand out to steady myself. This hand flattened D’s cock against his belly and then slid up his shaft. I apologised.

D looked at me, beadily. “Do that again.”

So I did, but with both hands this time.

D stretched out in the armchair, settling his hands behind his head. At this angle I had to kneel up and lean forwards each time I slid my hands up the underside of his cock. My tits swayed with each stroke.

“Maybe I could…”

“No, just keep doing that.”

I slid up and down for a few moments.

“What if I…”

“No; just that.”

So I put my back into it, watching D’s cock slither between my hands, its head flushed a deep, velvety purple. And D put in no effort at all, watching my tits sway and jiggle, a little oil transferring to them as they brushed against his skin. The only sound in the room was the thrum of my cat purring in a patch of sun on the floor beside me.

“What do you want to do?”

I jumped a little at the sound of D’s voice, shaken out of my daydream. I tore my eyes away from his cock and looked up at him.

“I want to put it in my mouth.”

“Well you can’t.”

I gave him a sulky look and began to stroke faster. He murmured, “Oh, fuck” under his breath and his body stiffened as his cock spat long trails of spunk up his belly and onto his chest. Kneeling up again, letting his cock slither between my tits, I leaned forward to lick his spunk from his skin, laughing as I slid my tongue over his collarbone and across the stubble on his chin.

Soaking Wet

It’s a nice day; we should be playing out on our bicycles or on the swings in the park. But we’re miserabilists, so we sit in the dark at the pictures and see Fifty Dead Men Walking. And we’re doing well; we’re actually concentrating on the film until I spill a whole box of Poppets over both of us. By the time we’ve hunted in the crevices of the seats and between our legs, we’ve missed some important plot. From there, we travel via some restlessness and sighing on D’s part and a couple of “Who’s he again?” on mine to:

“Take your knickers off.”

“No, they have night vision cameras and minesweepers in cinemas now.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s a very old cinema, they barely even have electricity.”

D has his hand up my skirt trying to hook his fingers under the waistband of my knickers, and this is making me squirm in ‘going to be noticed in a minute’ kind of way. I take the path of least resistance and wriggle them off, handing them to him.

“There! Now, who’s he again..?”

But instead of taking the proffered knickers off me, D holds my hand firmly and wraps my fingers and my knickers around his semi-hard cock, which I hadn’t noticed him unzipping while I was busy wriggling. I look about, a little startled. This cinema isn’t a stranger to our boredom during films but normally I like to check who might be watching first. We’ve got the row to ourselves, there isn’t anyone directly behind us, I relax a little, reposition my fingers and begin to slowly, firmly slide the silky fabric over his shaft, the downward strokes pulling it taut across the head of his cock.

D squirms a little lower in his seat and puts his arm around my shoulder, drawing me closer. I look back at the screen, his cock rigid and hot in my hands as I milk it, twisting my wrists with each stroke, never changing my pace. His body stiffens; his breathing grows shallow. I grip the base of his cock firmly with one hand and with the other I wrap my knickers tighter around the rim of his cock then circle the head with my fingers, squeezing firmly and begin jerking it quickly, laying my cheek against his chest to listen to his heart race. His thighs tremble, he sucks air sharply through his teeth and my fingers are suddenly wet.

He peels my soaking knickers from his cock, hooking them over one finger as he dangles them in front of me and whispers “Put them on again.”

A Papier Mache Elephant

It’s Monday, how can I be drunk already?  I’ve been a bad girlfriend today, no dinner, no naked tickling, nothing.  Instead, I went to the pub with Tracey, who’s on my course, and talked about her wedding.  Let’s be clear here, I’m not interested in Tracey’s wedding, the hat her mother is wearing, the hemline of her wedding dress or whether her fiancé is wearing a kilt, but I am interested in occasionally looking like a normal person who might be interested in those things.  I would like to be able to join in more. 

 

The trouble with joining in is that you open yourself up to, “So what about you, then?  When are you taking the plunge?”  And I’ll tell you a secret.  We’ve had a wedding licence since March when I came out of hospital and we did a bit of soul searching and checking of our legal rights.  We queued at Brent Register Office to get it and it’s been ticking away in the background ever since while we try to ignore it.  We’re a bit rubbish.  You could probably safely go off and raise a family and come back in 20 years and we still won’t have done it.  Besides, I’m too young and lovely to be a wife; I’ve never driven through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in my hair, I’ve never bathed in champagne and I’ve never taken part in a gang bang.

 

Of the three, if I had to ditch one in the interests of economy, it would be the champagne thing because I think it would be awfully sticky.  Though now that I’ve written that I think the same could be said of the gang bang.  Open topped car it is than.  I shall of course be completely naked.  You drive but not too quickly and careful round the Arc de Triomphe. 

 

Did you know, the Arc de Triomphe was very nearly an elephant?  It was going to have three floors of grand salons, a spiral staircase and a fountain that spouted from the elephant’s trunk.  This was not, in my opinion, a proposal formulated by sober people.  In the end, a papier mache model of the elephant was built before the money ran out.  This quickly became rat infested and was finally bought and moved to Pigalle.  It just shows you the opportunities lost to us when we stopped letting absinthe-riddled whoremongers make decisions.

 

Look, I found a picture.  My room’s the one on the left with the palm trees, I’ll meet you there, bring baby oil and condoms.

 

Drabs, Molls And Doxies

If you haven’t been to see In the Loop yet, why not? It’s outrageously brilliant. Get your skinny/fat arse down to your local cinema now! (Those of you with medium-sized arses may wait until it comes out on DVD, but you’ll have to live with the knowledge that you’re losers.)

So, that’s what I did today. Last night was fun, especially the bit where Lynda and I were allowed to jump the taxi queue in return for snogging each other, a simple enough request, easily fulfilled. In fact one we were happy to continue in the back of the taxi but we still had to pay the fare at the end of it. Honestly, I think girlies should get more things first and/or free in return for a token display of lipstick lesbianism. Why the world has any greater expectations of us is beyond me.

Lynda’s ankle is out of plaster now but she still has the cast, decorated with felt-tipped hearts and rabbits and the phrase ‘urban goddess’ picked out in green letters with pink spots, on her mantelpiece. Also on her mantelpiece she has what it took me a few moments to realise is not some fabulous new piece of i-pod compatible kit from Apple but instead a Swedish vibrator of eyelash-curling beauty.

Sadly this was on its recharge cycle as I understand it’s been getting some heavy rotation in Lynda’s continuing boyfriend-less state. I have however taken a photo of it on my phone and sent it to D as a hint.

Tonight, if you can believe it on a Saturday night, I’m staying in and revising. Exams are looming in just over three weeks now and the history of crime in Georgian London is calling me. You’ll find me with the other drabs, molls and doxies in Bridewell, Newgate and at Tyburn.

But The Important Thing Is...

Already tremendously late leaving the house for Shepherd’s Bush to see Bat for Lashes, but the important thing is that I have fabulous pink glittery tights on and violet eye shadow.

Bicycles and big scary animal heads, what's not to love?

But here's my new favourite thing (thanks to GL).  It had me at “sci fi musical”.  Were they right, was 1994 really like that?  I was only six so I don’t remember.