Lucy's Bedroom

Two Phoncalls

Call No.1

David: I’ve started looking at posts for next year.

Lucy: Oh yes, what were you thinking of?

David: I’ve sent off my application to Medecins Sans Frontieres but I’ll have to wait and see if they’ll offer me an interview.

Lucy: You did what, sorry?

David: They’re looking for people with a background in emergency medicine plus experience as an anaesthetist. My French might not be good enough though, so…

Lucy: You’re going to work in Africa?

David: Only for a few months. That won’t be a problem, will it?

Call Number 2

Tutor: So I just thought I’d give you a call to make sure everything’s OK and you’re feeling better now. You will be back with us next year, won’t you?

Lucy: Yes, I’m completely recovered but I’m in France right now. My dad had a heart attack so…

Tutor: Oh my God, you’re not anywhere near Paris, are you? Only I need some stuff looking up in the Sorbonne but you can’t get travel grants these days and they’re complete dinosaurs about putting statistical data on line. I think they do it on purpose because…

Lucy: Um, and my dad’s OK actually, so I’m planning to be back in time for…

Tutor: Have you got a pen? Write this down, it’s mostly about commodity prices in the years before, during and after the Revolution.

I should have phoned them both back and told David that next time he’s thinking of going to Africa right after buying a house with someone he should mention it before he sends off the application and not after. And told my tutor that it’s kind of him to offer me a dull piece of research work that it will actually cost me money to do but…oh what’s the point. I did what I always do and told both of them, “No, that’s fine.”

Having failed to hold down a job of any description I have no money to spend on this and was sitting in the kitchen looking, as my dad puts it, “face down in the marmalade” when he came and sorted me out. To be honest he’s doing fine and they don’t really need me here anymore. On Friday I went with him to the hospital for his check up and, while it’s always upsetting to see a parent attached to a fitfully blipping machine, he flirted with the nurses and they were perfectly happy with him.

So I might as well sit in a library in Paris as sit here staring out of the window. And it means I can put off going home until I’ve made up my mind what I think about Africa.

Ooh, Presents!

D is very good at presents and while I’ve been slowly wilting here in the French countryside he’s sent me several good ones. I’ve had a bottle of chocolate and balsamic vinegar, Nancy Mitford’s biography of Madame de Pompadour, a pink make up bag with pictures of hamsters on, and today I got an elegant and shiny box with the word Lelo written on the top.

I’ve coveted one of these ever since I found one plugged into a charger on a friend’s mantelpiece and mistook it for an Apple accessory. It’s an elegant, white, minimalist Swedish vibrator, with two separate vibration points, five different patterns of vibration and a little dial control like an i-pod that glows ice blue in the dark.

I’ve been having a play with it – no, not like that – pressing its tip against the end of my nose, switching it on and putting it on the table to see how long it takes to buzz itself off the edge, using it to wake the cat. Now I’m ready for bed.

According to the instructions, fully charged it has 300 minutes running time; do you think that will be enough? I’m slightly regretting wasting some of that on the cat…

25 Things

It’s internet meme time. You’ve probably seen it in some shape or form. It’s called 25 Things I Want and it’s usually a vehicle for complete tossers to write stuff like ‘I want to swim in the moonlight in Goa’. Pert girls like me prefer its variant 25 Things I Want (In Bed).

1. I want to be whipped until my skin is striped scarlet and I’m sobbing uncontrollably.

2. I want to be violated in every orifice by a giant, tentacled demon, like The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife (by Hokusai).



3. I want to be immortalised in a Japanese 3D anime porno.

4. I want to have sex that feels like rape (but isn’t).

5. I want a fuck buddy who I only have sex with. Turn up at his place when I feel like it, fuck, get dressed and walk away. Don’t talk about anything else. Maybe not even know his name.

6. I want to be tied by my wrists and ankles to the bed posts, blindfolded and fucked by an indeterminate number of men, none of whom I will ever see.

7. I want my clothes peeled off slowly by a stranger in a public place – a doorway or alley – somewhere that, if they turned their heads a fraction, passers-by would see my nakedness.

8. I want to be handcuffed at night to the Millennium footbridge, squatting with my hands behind my back and my skirt yanked up over my hips and then abandoned.

9. I want to lick out any woman my boyfriend chooses, while he watches.

10. I want to be fucked bent over the edge of a high place, while people walk below, my knuckles white as I cling on, struggling against each thrust.

11. I want to tip my head back, open my mouth and let a roomful of men spunk into my mouth, until it’s so full of cum that I can gargle with it, blowing bubbles and letting it dribble down my chin. Then I want to close my eyes and swallow hard, forcing it down.

12. I want a pair of thigh-high black PVC boots with five inch spike heels and scarlet soles with zips that run from my ankle to the hollow of my thigh and fasten with a tiny silver padlock.

13. I want to be arrested for lewd conduct.

14. I want to burn a home movie of me sucking my boyfriend’s cock to disc and accidentally return it to the library.

15. I want to be the stripper in the back room of a seedy pub with sticky carpets, standing on a stage made of beer crates and jiggling my tits for the lunchtime trade.

16. I want to be kept in a cage.

17. I want to fuck weightless in space.

18. I want to be the mistress of a rich man, spending all day lounging on the sofa in my Mayfair penthouse dressed in a see-through baby-doll negligee and fluffy mules, eating chocolates and reading Vogue, waiting for him to come over and throw me around the bedroom.

19. I want to go horse riding naked, inhaling my horse’s sweet, dusty scent, my arms wrapped round its neck as I’m impaled from behind on the long, thick cock of a man who spurs the horse into a gallop.

20. I want to be fucked by a man who tugs a pillowcase over my head, knotting it tightly around my neck before splaying his hand across my covered face and shoving me down into the bed until I cum, struggling and gasping for air.

21. I want an orgy with a room full of big-boobed, saucy women.

22. I want to fuck on the train between stations, urgently whispering in his ear to fuck me faster, drenched in sweat, his cock twitching in my cunt, as we pull up alongside the crowded platform.

23. I want to watch my boyfriend fucking another woman while I’m tied to a chair, tightly gagged so I can’t make a sound and firmly impaled on a huge dildo.

24. I want to walk up to a stranger in a crowded room, lay my hand lightly on his arm, stand on tip toes and whisper in his ear that I want him to stick his cock up my arse. Then take a step back and look at his expression.

25. I want a corset that laces so tightly with whalebone stays that it makes me feel feeble and powerless. And I want to wear it every day..

 

Monkey Chastity Vow

Today I’ve been to Fontevraud Abbey, which is in Anjou. Like all buildings of historic significance in France, it has been over-restored in a curiously minimalist fashion. I mean, I like an almost completely empty vaulted room as much as the next girl, but when you’ve seen seventeen of them in one morning, you’ve seen them all.

Considering it’s been around since the 11th century, it’s surprisingly light on historical anecdotes. Here are the only three I could find.

1. It was founded as an abbey for monks and nuns by Robert d’Arbrissel, who used to ‘test the strength of his vow of chastity’ by sleeping in the nuns’ quarters, a practice greeted with much scepticism.
2. After the death of Henry II, Eleanor of Aquitaine became a nun there and is buried in a painted tomb, next to her nasty son, Richard I. Except they’re not actually there any more, their remains having been stolen during the French Revolution. Nobody in the French Tourist Board will officially admit this.
3. The Abbey has occasionally functioned as a prison, its most notable prisoner being the teenage Jean Genet. The guidebook is a bit vague about what he did, but I imagine it was the usual petty theft and trolling about got up in lipstick that usually got him into trouble.

I read the guidebook sitting in the catacombs, and got a bit distracted by mis-reading d’Arbrissel’s ‘monkly chastity vow’ as ‘monkey chastity vow’. More people should base their lives on a promise to desist from having sex with monkeys; several of my girlfriends would have their lives improved by desisting from sex with men whose habits and manners resemble those of monkeys.

After so much boring history I deserved shopping and cake. If I were in England, both would be readily at hand – indeed would be 83% of the reason for going to an historic building. I’d be able to step straight from ‘room filled with inferior Gainsboroughs’ to ‘room filled with chutney and tea towels’. If you’ve never been to England, trust me, it’s all like this.

The only thing I could find to buy was olive oil soap scented with rose petals, which was nice, but who actually needs soap these days? Still, my pleasure at learning a new word (‘saponification’ - the process of adding lye to oil) outweighed the pointlessness of the soap. In search of cake I went to the Hotel Abbaye Royale, which is a mini chateau kind of place, and sat on the terrace eating a coffee éclair. And when I say ‘eating’ obviously I mean taking a big bite which sends coffee cream shooting out of the end and down my cleavage.

An elderly waiter ‘helped’ me recover my dignity at some length with the strenuous application of a napkin dipped in water and then told me I reminded him of his granddaughter. Given that he’s just been pawing at my boobs for several minutes, this was frankly creepy, but I remembered my monkey chastity vow and just smiled sweetly before tucking into the replacement éclair he’d brought me.

Positively Draconian

For the purposes of phone sex, I’ve spent most of the week at the mercy of an evil German doctor (played with sinister panache by D). We have left unspoken whether I’m Jewish and he’s a Nazi but there have been suggestions, chiefly in the form of humidity and jungle foliage that we might be hiding in Venezuela.

Not content with cosmetic enhancements (surgery to give me bigger boobs, a series of gold beads of increasing size inserted beneath the wall of my cunt to massage the underside of his cock as he fucks me, collagen injections to give me a larger, permanently erect clit) he’s moved on to some serious surgery to the brain and nervous system. The latter is now so thoroughly re-wired that I orgasm at the lightest brush of his fingertips across my nipples (something he’s careful to do frequently in public) and experience pain as intense, overwhelming pleasure, begging him fervently to whip and slap me harder. Coupled with the removal of certain synapses in my brain, freeing me of all sexual inhibition, I have become, “Almost but not quite a worthy companion”.

That’s the trouble with phone sex, it’s not very feminist. Absence plus a quiet voice insinuating itself into my ear turns me into a misogynist’s wet dream.

Back in the real, non-Nazi world, I’m only a month away from going back to Uni so I’ve been confirming my course choices (some ancient history this year) and having passport-sized photographs taken. Some of these are for an ID card and some for a passport renewal. The instructions on what your passport photo should look like have become positively draconian. No glasses, no fringe, no tilting your head to make your nose look smaller, no smiling, no opening your mouth, no looking foreign. I look absolutely furious in my photos. Fortunately, absolutely furious is how I usually look at passport control.

Seeing as I was in the photo booth anyway, I’ve taken another strip of photos in which I’m variously flashing my boobs and attempting to deep throat my bottled water. I must make every effort to send the right set of photos to D and to the Passport Office.

On Being A Famous Courtesan

There are times when it’s a good idea to be draped across patio furniture wearing nothing but sunglasses and flip flops. ‘When the men turn up to drain the septic tank’ isn’t one of them. Yet again, I have been the victim of my father’s imprecise domestic instructions. However often I explain this to him, he just can’t remember that it’s not enough to say, “I’m going out now” and then leave the house, without having added the all-important, “and hordes of people will be swarming all over the place with spanners while I’m gone.”

I did my best to be dignified with a beach towel but it wasn’t easy. I shall file this away with the time the men came to cut down a tree while I was dancing around the house in my knickers and the time men began dismantling guttering outside the bathroom window while I was in the bath.

In my embarrassment, I got dressed and fled the house, cycling to the (not very) local shop. It’s not a shop so much as a garage with a café that also sells groceries, cigarettes, agricultural supplies, rabbits and socialist newspapers. It has a slight air of nothing having changed since 1959. On the walls are framed posters for the Tour de France and on the wall behind the counter is pinned a dog-eared photograph of General de Gaulle.

I prop my borrowed bicycle against an out-of-order petrol pump and push aside the curtain of plastic strips that generally fails to keep out the fat, arthritic flies that occasionally stumble in. I sit at one of the café tables by an open window and drink coffee. I’m the only customer. The woman behind the counter glares at me suspiciously. She makes me a bit nervous and I’ve never managed to strike up a conversation with her. Instead, I’ve confined myself to nodding vaguely in the direction of General de Gaulle and saying, “Ah, de Gaulle…” She seems happy enough with this and, after a bit more glaring; she goes into the back room and turns up the volume of her soap opera, leaving me to wonder why I don’t know anything at all about General de Gaulle, aside from his jaunty caps.

Six years go by in which nothing happens (but it’s still 1959). A car pulls up in a cloud of dust and a man climbs out, makes several doomed attempts at folding a map and then just launches it with an exasperated shrug into the ditch. I like him already.

The bell tinkles as he comes into the shop and he mooches around, picking things up and putting them down again. I watch him furtively. I’d say he’s around thirty-ish but boyish-looking with tousled dark hair and a nose that looks broken but still handsome. I’m just weighing up the flex of his bicep when, in spectacularly bad French and without looking at me, he says, “Didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to stare?”

I turn crimson but it’s alright, he’s not cross, he’s just laughing at me. To change the subject I ask him what he’s looking for and it turns out what he really wants is directions to a place I’ve never heard of, so I’m no help at all. He’s American and he explains he’s looking for places his grandfather knew in the war. Originally they’d planned to come here together but then his grandfather was taken ill so he’s come to take photographs. He wants to know what I’m doing here. I’m not really doing anything so I tell him I’m a famous courtesan expiring slowly of consumption, and I cough a little bit by way of demonstration.

I can at least direct him towards a main road in exchange for a lift back in the direction of home. He lays the back seats of his car flat and swears fluently as he wrestles my bicycle into the car. We pull up on the grass verge just past where our respective roads diverge. While I stand and watch him mildly injuring himself as he struggles to extract my bicycle, he asks me, “So how do you become a famous courtesan?”

I’m momentarily stumped. I suppose the correct answer is, “have a nineteenth century novel loosely based on your scandalous life and pitiful death,” but I’m not sure I’ll convince him that’s how I got to be famous. Instead I just widened my eyes in all innocence and said, “Well, I suppose I could show you…”

There was a slightly too long pause in which I grinned gamely and thought “Oh, please laugh…” He didn’t, but he has invited me to visit a battlefield tomorrow. While I’m not entirely convinced that standing in dusty fields looking for a battle that has finished is what famous courtesans do, I wasn’t doing anything better tomorrow, so I’ve said yes.

Beware Of The Bears At The Gare D'Austerlitz

I met D at Gare du Nord, for what I like to think of as our Paris Shagathon Weekend. Someone told me that bears can smell sexual excitement in human females. Either they were wrong about that, or the bears in Paris hang out at the Gare d’Austerlitz. Either way, by the time I spotted D weaving his way down Platform 3, I was already quite fluttery and damp.

I suspect he shared my sentiments as in the taxi he took my hand and placed it on the bulge of his cock before draping his arm round my shoulder and hugging me close, rubbing his face against my hair and inhaling as I trailed the tip of my fingernail along his shaft.

In the hotel room, in one swooping motion, he flung his rucksack on the bed and gripped my arm, propelling me towards the window. Stooping, he lifted the hem of my dress up and right over my head as I wriggled my way out of a tangle of arms and hair. Then he bent me forwards, my thighs pressed against the cold ridges of the old cast iron radiator, my tits squashed against the glass. I curled my fingers round the edges of the window frame and looked down into the busy street while he peeled my knickers down and slid them down my legs, lifting each foot by the heel of my shoe as I stepped out of them.

Crouched on the floor behind me, he spread the lips of my cunt with his thumbs and buried his nose in it, breathing its scent before licking in one long slow lap from the tip of my clit up through my cunt and between my buttocks, fluttering around my arsehole. I moaned loudly, my legs trembling as he stood and, with his fingertips digging into the flesh of my hips, sank his cock to the hilt in my cunt with a soft squelch.

He fucked me fast, with no finesse, just short hard stabs, jerking my body back against his, the window rattling with each thrust, his balls slapping against my cunt with a dull smack. I turned my head, my cheek against the glass, and he spread his hand across it, bracing his arm as he curled two fingers into my mouth, his other hand free to smack my arse sharply as he fucked me, his hand always landing in the same spot which soon glowed pink and warm.

Suddenly he pulled out and I wobbled slightly, my balance no longer supported by his spread hand and impaled cock. He gripped my buttocks and spread them roughly, pressing the tip of his cock barely inside my arsehole as it spat gobs of spunk into my bowels. I squeaked and flinched, my face hot as I heard him laugh quietly to himself. He wanked the last drops of spunk onto my buttocks then spread my cheeks again, watching as his spunk dripped onto my cunt.

Then he let go and I heard him sit on the bed. Stiffly I stood up and tried to muster some dignity as I turned round to tell him off for his cheekiness. I should know better than to attempt dignity by now; it always goes wrong. I tripped over my own heels and landed with a thud on my bottom. D covered his mouth with his hand but laughed with every other bit of his body and said, “Oh Lucy, you look so…affronted!”

When my cat falls off things she’s been asleep on the edge of, she always pretends that’s exactly what she meant to do, so I adopted the same policy and crawled across to the bed to suck D’s cock clean.

I'm Gonna Get Lit Up (When The Lights Go On In London)

This place is a bit of a rural backwater. There’s only one shop which is also a garage, café, agricultural supply depot, post office and rabbit farm. We’re on mains water but there’s still a well in the courtyard. Oh, and for the last three days we’ve had no electricity.

This is a semi-regular occurrence and my dad has an attic full of board games to torture us with when it happens. My brother and his wife were visiting so unfortunately we had enough for ‘Shakespeare in a Box’. This consists of multiple copies of various plays and a motley assortment of crowns, swords and props. Many’s the teenage holiday blighted by our truculent performances as feuding nobles in Richard II when an electrical storm has brought down a power cable.

This time it was King Lear, with the blasted heath re-imagined as a drawing room. I was a definitive Edgar, my dad was convincingly in his dotage as Lear and when Gloucester had his eyes gouged out Joe rolled pickled onions across the floor. It was all so hideously middle class that if you ever find out where we live I think you should come round and burn our house down in a twisted act of class war.

Much as I disapprove of national stereotypes, let me indulge in one. When the electricity goes out, the countryside goes dark. Normally you can see the glimmer of light from other farmhouses even if they’re way off on the horizon. But for the last three days, it’s got dark and the French have just gone to bed. But we’re English, damn it. We didn’t win two world wars by going to bed early. No, we did it by huddling round pianos singing comic songs by candlelight. At times we were only a hair’s breadth away from filling sandbags and digging trenches. The closest we actually got to this was lying on our backs in a field smoking dope, which isn’t very close.

Bread Baby

I’ve made an improbably large amount of bread today. This is for (insert explanation about local church that I didn’t bother listening to properly). I don’t really mind what it’s for, I’ve been having a Marie Antoinette moment with my sleeves rolled up, thudding fistfuls of dough down on the kitchen table and puffing up clouds of flour, occasionally shooing hens out of the kitchen and just generally pretending to a level of rustic domesticity I don’t entirely merit.

I started out with loaves shaped from plaited strands of dough and studded with rosemary and sesame seeds but after a while I branched out into bread rolls shaped like mice and snails and then a rather disturbing ‘bread baby’ with a swollen, blind face and pudgy arms and legs. I paused for a bit after the bread baby, wondering whether it was just a bit too unnervingly pagan for a church. I decided it was and made another one but my plans to produce a whole legion of the damned bread babies was thwarted by my dad peering beadily at the growing pile of bread and then, as he left the room saying quietly, “No more babies, Lucy”. So instead I finished off with a bread hare and a batch of bread roll leverets.

There’s a business idea here for a shop selling pagan bakery produce. I’m picturing flapjacks made with a selection of grains of the type found in the stomachs of bog burial sacrificial victims. Maybe birthday cakes iced with runes.

In The Meadow

It’s been a nice day today. The sun has shone, insects have buzzed and while everyone has been out I’ve been sunbathing naked in the meadow behind my dad’s house. The grass is nearly two feet high, interspersed with poppies, cornflowers, chamomile and buttercups. The sun has dried it to a pale straw and seeds waft from open seed heads as the breeze fitfully stirs and then dies away again.

Lying in my patch of flattened grass, I’m hidden from view. The stalks press haphazard patterns into my skin, my breasts and belly criss-crossed with pink lines as I sprawl with my cheek resting on one forearm, the other arm trapped underneath my body as my fingers part my cunt lips. I spread my legs wide, a shiver runs down my spine as the breeze blows against my damp skin and a bead of sweat trickles down my thigh. With eyes screwed tight shut, even behind sunglasses, I grind my hips against my fingertips, circling and teasing my clit as my arm grows numb.

On the brink of cumming I try to ease off, try to spin it out, but it’s too late, I’m too close. I roll onto my back with my knees drawn up, turning my head aside from the glaring sun overhead, and rub furiously at my clit, arching my back and gasping out my orgasm before slumping flat, my head throbbing, breathing hard.

I brush damp hair off my forehead and then cup the mound of my cunt with both hands, feeling its warmth and wetness and the pulse of my clit gradually slowing. With two fingers hooked inside my cunt, I rub the pad of my thumb against my clit, painfully at first, the nub of flesh staying resolutely soft, but gradually stiffening as I curve my fingers, stroke them inside my cunt. I sit up, propped with one hand behind me, my head thrown back as I frig myself faster, my cunt making squelching sounds as my fingers become a blur and I suddenly cum sharply, yelping and curling into a ball on my side, still thrusting my fingers as shudder and whimper.

I fight off a wave of tiredness, my head aching now and my mouth dry. I lick my lips and press the flat of my hand against my bladder which is uncomfortably full. With a cautious glance around, I stand and walk across the meadow, the grass brushing against my legs, towards the clump of trees that separate the meadow from the river. It’s chilly in the shade of the trees and I push my sunglasses onto the top of my head as I pick my way through the roots, scratching my thigh on a bramble and catching my hair on a branch before finding a flat, well-hidden place to have a private pee.

Hiding behind a tree trunk, I peek out at the riverbank. This is the edge of my dad’s land so there’s no guarantee there’ll be no one around. But both banks are deserted. I wade out into the freezing river, my feet sinking into the riverbed with mud oozing between my toes. I walk up stream, the water around my knees until I come to the place where the river widens and deepens; its surface calm and dark, glittering in the sun. I launch myself in and shriek as the icy water laps against my thighs and breasts, swimming with rapid strokes to keep from freezing. Gradually my body relaxes, the water doesn’t seem so cold and I slow to a lazy breaststroke.

I float on my back, my limbs spread wide, my sunglasses on again, until the current takes me back towards the shallows, when I roll over and swim back up the river to float again. Finally I pull myself up onto a rock in the shallows and spread my legs, letting the water burble between them while I examine the bramble scar on my thigh. A cloud scuds across the sun for a moment and I shiver and paddle back to the bank, squirming my way through the branches.

Back in my bathroom I showered, washing the river water from my hair, standing under the scalding water for far too long, letting it plaster my hair to my head and shoulders, water spraying off the slope of my breasts. With my eyes shut tight I groped along the wall until my fingers closed around the long handle of a back-scrubbing brush. Leaning back against the tiles and with my fingers interlocking round its handle, I swept it between my thighs, slowly back and forwards, its bristles softened in the hot water but still prickling against my swollen flesh, sliding in between the folds of my cunt and brushing the tip of my clit.