Lucy's Bedroom

Padlocked

D snaps the tiny silver padlock onto my clit ring. I wear it all day at work. When I get home, I shut the front door by leaning against it and nudging it with my bum. The bang brings D to the kitchen door. He leans against the door jamb with his hands in his pockets.

"Do you still have your padlock on?"

I nod.

"Show me."

I slide my hands down my thighs, bunching the material of my skirt up with my fingers, easing it up over my hips. I part my legs and a shiver runs up my spine as I feel the padlock quiver on its ring. With the tips of my fingers, I pull back the hood of my clit, lifting the ring a little. The padlock brushes the tip of my clit and I flinch.

D walks slowly towards me and crouches at my feet. I can feel his breath on my cunt. He grips the heels of my shoes, slides his hands up my legs, over the swell of my calves and the damp insides of my thighs. He probes the tip of his tongue into my clit ring, wriggling it and making me whimper.

He stops before I can cum. Standing, he cups my cheeks in his hands and brushes my lips with his. I lick my bottom lip, faintly tasting my own cunt.

"That's enough for now. Tomorrow night, I'm going to take you to a gangbang."

And he turns, hands back in his pockets, and mooches into the kitchen, leaning into the fridge and rummaging around while I stand with my mouth open and stare at his back.

A Late Spurt

Following a late spurt, the winner of the story competition is the introduction of female slavery. The story is called The Birthday Present.  Scroll down the left hand side to Longer Stories.

As you'll see, it ends on a cliffhanger and may continue depending on how well-behaved you are.

Wobbling Like A Jelly

I took the day off today because I had my follow-up appointment with my surgeon (which went fine, everything's OK) but I didn't fancy spending the morning in work trying not to think about it. Instead I took my bicycle out for its first trip since before the operation. You know the expression 'it's like riding a bicycle, you never forget'? Well whoever said that was an idiot; I wobbled like a jelly all the way down Green Lanes, abandoning my original plan of carrying on to Regents Park in favour of sitting by the lake in Finsbury Park with some cheese and chutney sandwiches and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps (I peeled back the bread and inserted a layer of crisps in the sandwiches before munching them down, because I don't see why being 21 should be a reason not to do that).

There's still time to vote in my story poll. Bear in mind this appears on both versions of my blog and so the results are a total of the two polls. At the moment, female slavery is in the lead, followed by pirates and then an evil futuristic corporation. With hindsight, I think it was a mistake to include pirates. I really only meant it as an ironic comment on internet enthusiasm for all things piratey. It's probably just as well I didn't give you the option of voting for a story where some enthusiastic shagging is brought to an abrupt and premature end when it's played off by keyboard cat.

Trapped

They seemed like fun when I bought them but I changed my mind and stuffed them away in the back of a drawer, where D finally found them. Black fishnet tights with an inch-wide mesh. He rolled them over my toes as I lay on my back, lifting my legs up in the air and then arching my back as he tugged them over my hips. He kissed the skin of my belly through each diamond-shaped hole, parting my thighs, the lips of my pussy pouting against the tightly-drawn nylon as he squirmed a finger into me.

With a moan I pulled him on top of me, suddenly hungry for his weight. His cock pressed against my belly and I reached down, spreading one of the holes in my tights and squeezing it over the head of his cock as he gave a little shove. I squeezed another and then another, rolling them down his cock, threading it in and out of the mesh until it was trapped against the swell of my belly. D rested his brow against mine, the sinews in his neck taut, his back curved. I cupped his balls, stroking them with my thumb, running its pad over and around them as I teased my way down towards his arsehole with the tip of my middle finger. He grunted and twitched, digging the seam of my tights between the lips of my cunt.

I wrapped my other hand around the head of his cock, gently massaging its tip with my thumb. He hissed his breath in through clenched teeth and rolled his hips against mine, rubbing the seam of the tights against my clit. I lifted my legs, bending my knees and drawing them back, tightening the seam as I wanked his cock a little faster. I buried my face in his scruffy beard, nipping at his jawbone and his bottom lip, murmuring, "Spunk up all over me, you dirty fucker, I want a cum bath, give me what I deserve."

He snatched at my wrist and pulled my hand away from his balls, folding my fingers down into a fist, except one, which he sucked, sloppily. I pulled my hand from his and stroked my wet fingertip against the edge of his arsehole, feeling it twitch and relax and open for me, his groan vibrating in my ear as I wriggled my finger in to the first knuckle, then the second, stroking and beckoning his orgasm out of him.

He stiffened and gasped, spunk shooting through my fingers and spraying my belly and tits as he trembled, his hips thrusting involuntarily, forcing his cock through the tight nylon and into my fist. For a moment after he finished he crouched stiffly above me before slowly slumping on top of me. My finger slipped from his arse as his skin pressing on mine smeared his spunk stickily between our bodies. His breathing deepened and as his cock softened I felt the tension of the tights digging into my slit subside.

Framed In Black Lace

Well that was an easily-sorted-out row. It turned out all I had to do was arrive unannounced at James' flat bearing pineapple upside down cake, bang on the window and noisily demand sex. James, being a practical sort of chap, opted for cake. I could see D had more of a crisis of indecision, because he's very keen on both cake and sex. In the end we reached a compromise whereby D would sit in an armchair and stickily eat cake off a blue and white china plate, while I knelt on the floor and sucked on his balls while I stroked his cock. Having gone out for a brisk and gentlemanly walk while we sorted out our differences, James suggested on his return - by calling a taxi - that it might be time for us to go home now.

It was in the taxi that D looked at me sternly and said, "Frankly Lucy, I think it's going to take more than cake to show me you're sorry."

In the bedroom, with his belt wrapped around his hand, he cupped my face and kissed my eyelids, the leather pressing warmly against my cheek. He brushed my hair back and whispered in my ear, "I want to thrash you until you cry and fuck you with hot tears on your cheeks." My belly fluttered and my clit pulsed hotly as I licked my lips, my mouth too dry to answer him.

Bent over my dressing table stool, my toes and fingertips splayed against the floor, I yelped as his belt cut across the tops of my thighs, just below the fold of my buttocks, landing in the same spot until I was squealing. As I squirmed, slipping off the stool, he smacked his belt across every inch of my buttocks until they throbbed hot and pink. An occasional stroke sliced across the backs of my thighs or curled around my hip. I began to gasp with each stroke, barely able to catch my breath before the next one landed, a thudding pulse throbbing heavily in my temples and in my clit.

He paused, pressing two fingers between the folds of my cunt. I peered over my shoulder and watched him draw them slowly out and suck them. Then I squeaked with shock as he suddenly wrapped one arm around my waist and the other between my thighs and hoisted me up, thrusting me further forwards over the stool, resting on my elbows with my feet kicking in the air. He straddled me, sitting on my bum, pressing my belly into the edge of the stool. Then, gripping my thigh, his fingertips digging into its flesh, he spread my legs and the belt slashed across them, each stroke working its way closer to my cunt.

My face was hot with temper and my breathing ragged and shallow as he crushed me against the stool but I was determined not to cry, not even when the last three strokes smacked loudly and firmly across my cunt. He stood up and I tumbled onto the floor, panting and scowling up at him. He stretched himself out, lying half on top of me, nuzzling my neck and shoulder and kissing my breasts while his fingers teased their way into me, stroking me and lightly brushing the underside of my clit. I threw one arm across my face and arched slightly, my bladder achingly full as he pressed the heel of his hand against it, circling my clit faster now with his fingertip. He slid his other hand under the back of my head, lifting it to kiss my bottom lip and I wrapped my arms tightly round his neck, shuddering out tiny, piercing gasps as a sharp orgasm stung my nerve endings.

He lay me back on the floor and I closed my eyes, squeezing a tear from the corner of my eye. He licked it from my cheek, murmured, "Good girl" and, my eyes still shut, I rubbed my cheek against his chin as his weight rolled on top of me, the hot, hard tip of his cock splitting me open.

I probably would, in any case, have worn a thong with this skirt to work. But it was still nice to catch him in the mirror, watching me getting dressed, my buttocks still pink and framed in black lace.

Fuckwitted Retardedness

Proper big row after my last post. There's a mood in Cyclothymia in between depression and elation where both moods seem to exist together. This is the mood in which judgement is at its most impaired. It's the mood where big rows live.

Yes, on reflection, I probably should mention my reluctance to have sex in person and in private rather than splash it all over my blog. No, I'm not going to remove the post, because I never do that, even though my posts are written across the whole spectrum of my moods and I no longer agree with all of them. Yes, I appreciate that you're asking me this as a personal favour. No, that doesn't change my view, though not for any particularly good reason.

An on and on until we've scraped each other's eyes out. As I start to feel in more of a 'coping' mood, I can see I'm completely in the wrong about everything here. But the thing is - how can I put this? Do you ever find yourself walking down a crowded street and always being the one who steps aside for someone else to pass? Don't you end up wanting to walk straight at people and say, "No, this time you get out of my way"? That's how I feel now. Get out of my way.

So, Andy the Gay Policeman and I have the house to ourselves until James gets sick of D sleeping on his sofa and throws him out. He's gently restrained me from doing any of the crazy-lady things I initially suggested, like changing all the locks or filming myself destroying all of D's possessions and then posting the film on YouTube.

Instead, we spent last night looking for the worst cocktail on the internet. We've whittled it down to a shortlist of three. (1) The Irish Car Bomb. This is whiskey floated on top of Baileys in a shot glass and then dropped into Guinness. This wins its place not based on its taste (because Guinness, yuck) but in special tribute to the fuckwitted retardedness of the name. (2) The Quick Fuck. This is two parts Midori and one part Baileys, floated on top. Wikipedia says the name was chosen to shock, but it doesn't shock half as much as the idea of drinking something melon and chocolate flavoured. (3) The Blow Job. This is Baileys and Kahlua topped with whipped cream, "...traditionally consumed without using the hands." Have you spotted a Baileys theme going on here? It was the closest I could get to a comfort chocolate binge without getting dressed and going to the all-night garage for a big bag of Maltesers.

We actually drank this last one, though hands-free proved impossible and so we compromised by tipping the shot glasses up quickly into each other's mouths so the drink had to be quickly gulped to avoid it trickling down our chins and the whipped cream went straight up our noses. In a state of mellow drunkenness, we lay on the floor and Andy told me scurrilous stories about public blowjobs with random pick-ups. He makes me feel like I'm not really trying.

Ogden's Redbreast Flake

As I wasn't working yesterday, I spent the day in bed with the covers over my head and my tin under the pillow. I hid my tin, wrapped up in a jumper in the bottom of my trunk, before we moved because I thought if David found it he would throw it away. It's a tobacco tin - Ogden's Redbreast Flake with a picture of a robin in the snow - and inside, wrapped in some lilac writing paper that still smells faintly of my mother's Chanel No.5 are three razor blades. Next to them, in a glass bottle that used to hold cologne, is some antiseptic and underneath are some gauze dressings in paper wrappers, one of which has a drawing of a hare gazing at the moon in blue-black fountain pen ink. I feel happier with the tin close by and I open it occasionally to look at and smell the contents but I'm not quite sunk enough to cut. Not today.

But I'm supposed to be writing about yesterday. Yesterday was dinner with two senior consultants and all very important to D, which is why he told me about it ages ago, drew a pink circle around it on the calendar in the kitchen and set reminders on my email and phone. In the end he only got me there by manhandling me out of bed, scrubbing me down in the shower, blow-drying my hair and laying out clothes on the bed then standing watching me while I got dressed. Outside the house in one of those leafy squares in Notting Hill that smell of money, he switched off the car engine and sat looking at me until I was forced to meet his gaze.

"I know it's hard, but I need you to do this. You really aren't ill enough to just stop."

And I suppose I'm not, but I am ill enough to feel like a total, worthless cunt the whole time people are smiling and chatting and handing me drinks (which D took off me) and feeding me lovely food (D scowled at me as I pushed it round the plate). On one level, I recognise that I cope better than I feel. He was very pleased with me afterwards, and more affectionate than he's been since this slump started. But I feel marked by it, as though everyone can tell I'm defective. It makes me think of Ash Wednesdays in my childhood, when the priest would make a thumbprint of ash on my forehead and some would fall and powder my nose.

Back in bed, with one hand behind my head and slipped under the pillow to touch my tin, I stared at the ceiling as David lapped his tongue slowly and carefully around my clit. When I feel like this I have no real interest in sex and I just can't cum. In the end, and knotted up tight with crossness, I pushed him away and rolled over onto my side. He misinterpreted this and slid his hand between my thighs, lifting one of them and pressing his cock into my cunt. I smothered my face in the pillow, my body twisted as he lifted my thigh higher and began fucking me.

Cyclothymia

Well the good news, for anyone who follows me on Twitter, is that I'm no longer locked out of my house in a thunderstorm. I am, however, about as anxious as I can feel and still type. I have a condition called cyclothymia - at least that's the current diagnosis, past diagnoses include bi-polar II, schizophrenia and 'just going through a phase' - which makes me subject to mood swings. These aren't as pronounced as bi-polar moods but they're also not as long-lasting, which is superficially a good thing but it does mean I don't know from one day to the next how I'm going to feel. This rapid changeability also means I'm left wondering whether I'm feeling anxious and sad because something has happened to make me feel that way - in other words, a normal reaction - or whether I feel anxious and sad for no reason other than I'm in a down phase.

I can't write any more today. What I have written is probably shit.

New Coat

Do you know what the sole consolation in my life has been today? A man on Oxford Street handed me a free, promotional spork. I don't know what it's promoting and I don't care. So what else has happened today? (1) A man juggling a coffee, a phone and an umbrella on the train failed and tipped his coffee all over me. He glanced up at me from his phone and mouthed "sorry" before turning his back on me and carrying on talking. (2) A woman threw a poisonous hissy fit because I couldn't find an item she wanted to return - two years after buying it - on the computer. (3) I dropped and broke my reading glasses on the station platform and then stood stupidly crying while people around me shuffled away from the crazy lady.

Actually, the spork isn't consoling me very much, even though I sit looking at it now while I type. The truth is, I'm just not feeling very buoyant today. I put my sadness on like a coat in the morning and now I feel too apathetic to take it off again.

Blog Envy

Look how much better the Girl writes about coffee shop lust than I did a few posts ago. Kiss