Lucy's Bedroom

Bat

Today should have been my first meeting of the term with my new tutor but I shamelessly camped up the ‘ankle in plaster’ thing and got out of it. Instead I spent the day with my nose in a book…no, you’re right, I didn’t. I spent 25 minutes with my nose in a book and 3 hours dozing with my mouth open. When I finally shook myself properly awake, I had a headache and the bedroom was stuffy. I flung the sash window up and found a bat, not hidden, just clinging to the brick under the windowsill, tiny and furry and fluttering as it breathed in and out.

As I leaned out of the window watching it, a neighbour from next door but one came out, looked at me and asked, “Are you alright?”

“Yes. There’s a bat.”

He went back into his house for a moment then walked into my front garden. I was still watching the bat and I assumed he’d come for a closer look too. I didn’t realise until it was too late that he’d brought a brush with him, which he used to sweep the bat off the bricks. It flapped for a second, still holding on by one claw, then he swept at it again and it dropped to the ground. I screamed, suddenly convinced he was going to stamp on it, but the bat flew off erratically, quickly invisible against grey clouds.

I stared at the man with hate hissing out of my ears like steam. He chuckled indulgently. “There you are love, no need to get yourself upset, it wasn’t going to get caught in your hair.”

At moments like this I’d like there to be a god, to come along with her celestial brush and stamp on this foul man. The best I could manage was a rather prissy, “You shouldn’t do that, you know, they’re a protected species.”

I was still upset when D came home and I greeted him with a snivelling, wobbly account of events while he blinked at me in bewilderment. “…and then I thought he was going to stamp on it so I screamed and…” It slowly filtered into my head that D was wearing a suit and has had a haircut and shave. “Oh, how did the interview go?”

The interview has gone well and he’s now on Medecins Sans Frontieres’ shortlist. He won’t know where they want him to go until closer to January but they discussed Liberia, Sierra Leone and Burkina Faso and he has a list of vaccinations to get now based on travel to West Africa.

He’s very excited and not really bothered about my bat.

Stelling Minnis

Woo hoo, we have new things! D has his new glasses. He’s gone for a 1950s rocket scientist look. This has enabled him to safely collect my new car from the showroom. My clapped out old Mini failed its MOT so badly that the man in the garage called people out from the office to come and look. So I’ve taken advantage of the Government’s Scrappage Scheme – as this is approximately ten times what my car is actually worth – and bought a groovy new Fiat 500.

The advertising for this boasts that there are 500,000 possible ways of customising it. 499,823 of these involve having peculiar logos printed on the side, including flowers, hand prints, Italian flags, the skyline of Paris and gigantic zip fasteners. Curiously, these all cost more money, when you’d think they’d knock something off the price for forcing you to drive around in such an excrescence.

I’ve limited myself to leather seats, alloy wheels (and no, I have absolutely no idea why these are a good thing, I was just in a shopping frenzy), reverse parking sensors (because…y’know), a glass roof, electric door mirrors (not sure, I think they give small shocks to grubby-fingered toddlers), and air conditioning. With one bound your heroine increased her personal debt and played her part in the destruction of the planet.

I am hugely frustrated not to be able to drive it immediately and have had to content myself with sitting in the passenger seat wearing lipstick that matches the body paint (pasodoble red). D said, “Let’s take it for a spin” which made me laugh. It’s a phrase from the golden age of motoring, when men washed their cars every Saturday and drove out to the country every Sunday to sit cooped up with their families, staring glumly through the windscreen at the view obscured by driving rain while they ate Scotch eggs.

I entered into the spirit of things and packed a picnic (cold home-made pizza, banana and sultana cake, pears, Kit Kats and a flask of coffee) and we drove in a slightly random fashion to Stelling Minnis, which is in Kent, a few miles south of Canterbury. We picnicked on the common, peered from a distance at the cows and the windmill, and to humour me on the way home, D drove along Stone Street, which is an ancient Roman road.

And…that’s it really. I feel like this story should reach some kind of dramatic climax but the more I blog the more I suspect it’s like those stories you tell small children about their exciting day and all the things they did and now it’s time for bed.

Stings Like Heck

We’ve come to the conclusion that D needs glasses. I first suggested this following an increased incidence of spunk-up-nose blowjobs. Spunk-up-nose stings like heck and while I’m prepared to accept a certain proportion of things that sting like heck in an ‘I was probably asking for it’ kind of way, I finally called him on it last night when I got a full blast up both nostrils.

He was very apologetic and spent some time trying my reading glasses on while I held up a copy of my Doctor Who Magazine at different distances and he went, “It’s…I’m not sure, is it a Cyberman?”

I can’t help being a bit worried that he’s in charge of intensive care patients without being able to see properly. I mean, isn’t there a chance that he’s misread someone’s blood pressure as their temperature or plugged their catheter into their liver?

“Oh no, nurses do all that, I just stand around looking authoritative.”

“How do you manage that?”

“I wear a tie.”

I think I’ve convinced him that if he was wearing spectacles as well he would look twice as authoritative. And it’s nice to know his job’s so easy.

That was last night. This morning, my perceived criticism of his physical weakness resulted in two punishments. (1) I had to lie in the bit of the bed covered in toast crumbs and (2) 40 whacks with the flat of his hand on my bum. It stings like heck but I was probably asking for it.

Submerged

Out to dinner last night, all dressed up but feeling naked without my clumpy high heels. Somehow a clumpy plaster cast doesn’t have the same erotic charge. Still, I braved it out in a black frock with tiny buttons all the way from the hem to my neck and tightly buttoned cuffs. As long as you didn’t look down at the pink and black striped sock on my toes I was the model of repressed desire.

Afterwards, D knelt on the floor in the hall as I sat on the hall table and watched him undo each button with trembling fingers, starting from my hem and slowly working his way up as my dress fell open. Standing now, he wrapped his hands lightly around my throat, kissing and sucking my bottom lip then forcing his tongue into my mouth. I tipped my head back, my eyes closed, and felt for the bulge of his cock, unbuttoning it and wrapping my fingers firmly around it.

As he ground his lips against mine I slowly stroked my hands from the tip of his cock to its root, my fingers circling it, squeezing the tip as it was forced between them, hand over hand in one long continuous movement, like endlessly sinking into a tight cunt. I changed direction, stroking up, tugging gently and smoothly as he groaned into my mouth. Sometimes faster, sometimes slower, first in one direction, then in another; he leaned his forehead against mine, trembling harder now, eyes screwed tight shut, breathing raggedly.

Suddenly he grunted and his cock jerked and an arc of spunk splashed against my belly, then another on my thigh and then a last feeble spurt that trickled onto my fingers. I leaned back against the mirror, suddenly sleepy, and sucked my fingers as D peeled my knickers down and used them to wipe my skin dry.

Earlier, before we went out, we had an argument so fierce that I lay on the bed and wept loud, snotty tears like a child. My anger hasn’t disappeared; I can still feel it hot inside me but I struggle to submerge it, to hold it under with both hands while it thrashes and splutters until it drowns.

Sex Degrees of Separation

When I was a puppy you went to the chemist to buy Haliborange and fluffy hot water bottles.  Now you can go there to calculate your chances of having Chlamydia.

Ooh, let me see!

Yes, brighten your day by calculating the number of people you've indirectly come into sexual contact with.  The average Brit has indirectly had sex with 2.8 million people.  I scored 5,448,302.  And now I'm going to fill my hot water bottle and go to bed with the cat.

Nothing On

7.35 p.m. David is bored. He has flicked through 99 television channels twice, rolled up individual pages of the Guardian, knotted them into squibs and thrown them at the curtain for the cat to scramble up and catch for 6 minutes and eaten 11 chocolate biscuits. Lucy is writing a thank you letter, because she is nicely brought up.

7.42 p.m. David is still bored. He is drawing faces on the pads of Lucy’s toes with a blue felt tip pen. Lucy is still writing a thank you letter. The cat has gone to sleep on top of the television, where she is a bit fluffed up by static electricity.

7.46 p.m. David has made Lucy stop writing her thank you letter to decide whether, in unspecified circumstances in which her life depended on it, she would rather shag Alistair Darling or George Osborne. Lucy secretly thinks this is an easy choice but is trying to get more information on the circumstances.

7.53 p.m. David has lost patience. Having failed to declare her choice, Lucy is deemed to have forfeited the game and has had her knickers confiscated. She is lying on the sofa staring at the ceiling and listening to David banging about upstairs and swearing as he looks for condoms.

7.54 p.m. David has a raging erection. Lucy is squeaking as he squirts cold lube at her bottom. He ignores her and grips the backs of her knees as he squeezes his cock into her and starts grunting softly with each thrust. The cat stretches and rolls onto her back waving her legs in the air. Lucy holds her tail.

7.57 p.m. David sits on the floor, tying a knot in his discarded condom. The cat watches with interest. Lucy has become partially wedged between sofa cushions and struggles, unnoticed, to sit up.

8.00 p.m. David begins flicking through 99 television channels again. There is still nothing on. Lucy notices her thank you letter has become smeared with lubricant and decides to abandon manners for this evening.

In A Cold House

The house was cold and I was so toasty warm curled up in bed that I put off getting up for a wee for as long as I possibly could. But it was a mistake to mention this.

I squirmed miserably, making low moaning noises as I lay on my back with a pillow under my bum and the heel of D’s hand pressing firmly against my swollen bladder as he slowly licked at my clit. Quite apart from anything else, now that he’d pulled the duvet off the bed I might as well have got up. My skin was taut with goose pimples and my nipples were crinkled and rigid with cold.

He slipped the tip of his little finger into my clit ring and tugged it gently, sliding the hood of my clit back and sucking on the exposed nub of my clit. I clenched my muscles tightly, desperately trying to think of anything other than my need to wee. Then he slowly drilled one finger into my clenched cunt, squirming it into me and stroking its curled tip against the sensitive spot of my urethra.

In a panic, I pushed his head away, half sitting up as I felt a tiny dribble leak out. He slid his arms under my shoulder and knees and dragged me to the edge of the bed, lifting and carrying me into the bathroom. He deposited me on the loo and knelt between my knees, two fingers curled inside my cunt now, stroking gently as his thumb teased my clit. I arched my back, wrapping my arms around his neck as he sucked on my nipple and let my head fall back, gazing at the ceiling as the knot of tension in my clit suddenly burst.

Spraying his hand with a stream of warm piss, I began to gasp as my orgasm pulsed, stinging and uncomfortable, finally burying my face in his hair, groaning as I shivered.

He shook me off, looking up sternly at me, his hand still cupping the mound of my cunt. “Dirty girl.”

Mellow Fruitfulness

A conker fell off a tree and bonked me on the head at the bus stop this morning. And that is to autumn what the first cuckoo is to spring.

This was an experimental bus trip, to see how I got on with my crutch. In fact I got on just fine with my crutch; it was other people who were the problem. Still, I only had to ask twice before the young man slowly took one of his i-pod ear pieces out, leaned forwards and yelled, “Ya what?” And then I only had to explain it all again once more before he heaved a tragic sigh and stood up out of his seat at a speed most glaciers would consider ‘lagging behind’. Honestly, in my next life I’m coming back as Stalin, no messing around.

I’ve been to Keats’ House in Hampstead. He wasn’t in. As I’ve already seen the flat where he died in Rome, I now only have to visit all the places he lived between 1795 and 1818 and I will have him comprehensively stalked. He was born in a pub in Moorgate, so this might not be as difficult as it sounds.

In that way architectural historians have, they have recently painted everything in its original hideous browns and purples. There’s a nice blue and grey parlour where Keats lay on a day bed and coughed up blood but most of the rest of it is authentically hideous.

Lured by the siren call of tea, I stumped over to a tea shop I used to visit quite often when D worked in Hampstead. D hated it because the owner and staff are so surly and slow, but that’s what I liked about it; these people had elevated bad service to a form of performance art. Today, some poor soul had the misfortune to walk in clutching a Starbucks cup.

Now I can see how that might be galling to an independent shop owner, but the fact is he’d come into the shop to spend money, not to be yelled at for ten minutes. Funnily enough, after that, he didn’t stay to buy anything and neither did any of the customers who opened the door, stood frozen in horror for a few seconds and then fled. And afterwards, the staff were so busy chuntering about the ingratitude of customers that they completely ignored my attempts to pay for my toasted tea cake and so in the end I just hobbled out, doing the world’s slowest runner up Parliament Hill.

Make Yourself At Home

Today was D’s day off between shift changes so we went to the pub for lunch. I’m managing on one crutch now and I’m supposed to practising, so the walk was deemed ‘good for me’ as well as being a way of covering up that we were secretly having lunch with J.

Regular readers will remember J, but for those of you joining us late, the salient facts are as follows: nice cock; my girlfriend’s ex; we’ve had a couple of threesomes with him; did I mention he has a nice cock?

When Lynda split up with J there was one of those awful ‘dividing of the friends’ where everyone’s supposed to take sides and we were written on Lynda’s list. But D sometimes drinks with J and we just don’t mention it to Lynda (except here, obviously, where I’ve completely blown our cover).

As J was also on a day off, and as I’m always on a day off, there was nothing for it but to hog the pub’s fire and get outrageously drunk by 3.30 in the afternoon. The bar staff made a fuss of me, shifting chairs and tables so I could sit closer to the fire, fetching a stool so I could put my foot up and even smiling indulgently when J finally crashed through the door into the street with me on his back and D followed with my crutch over his shoulder.

I still, if I’m honest, feel a little bit weird about being naked except for my plaster cast. But not weird enough to turn down a whole afternoon spent lying on sofa cushions in front of the fire, taking it in turn to suck their cocks until they were both exhausted, I had four loads of cum on my face and tits and the sofa cushion covers needed dry cleaning.

J leaned over me one last time. “Smile!” and he took a picture of me, covered in spunk, which he saved as his phone’s wallpaper. And then they sat on the floor, one either side of me, passing a joint as they chatted about public sector pay while I dozed between them.

D’s phone rang; a call from work. “Hang on a second…” He motioned vaguely in my direction and said to J, “Make yourself at home” then wandered off talking very seriously into his phone, deep in one of those medical conversations that consists entirely of acronyms. I lay with my eyes shut, gripping J’s hair in my fists and guiding his head as he lapped at my cunt, listening to the murmur of D’s conversation in the kitchen.

I should talk seriously to him about getting me a spare man about the house.

Time For An Argument

Early morning, not light yet, D’s asleep but his cock isn’t. He rolls over with a grunt, bashing my ear with his elbow and reaches down to grip my thigh and hoist it up while he jabs vaguely in the direction of my cunt. In the normal run of things he would eventually hit his target, hump me half-heartedly from behind for a couple of minutes, crushing the breath out of my ribs, grunt again as he filled me full of spunk and then be unconscious almost before his cock had slipped out of my slit, leaving me to lie awake in the wet patch.

But this isn’t the normal run of things. He kicks my cast, his yelp is drowned out by my howl, dogs bark, milk floats skid and crash, an ice shelf collapses in Antarctica.

Now that we’re both awake, it must be time for an argument. The trouble is I’m not certain what the argument is about. Sometimes, early morning sleepy fucking is rather nice. It’s intimate and domestic. Other times, early morning sleepy fucking is chauvinistic and exploitative. Which of these applies at any given time is one of those things that I wish D could work out for himself without being told. Which is why so many women end up being murdered.