Lucy's Bedroom

What The Subject Always Is

There was nothing very special about the tights. They were just a pair of black argyle patterned tights that I wore with a black a-line mini skirt, a pale pink polo neck jumper and some clumpy black boots. D looked at them quizzically as we were leaving the house but didn’t say anything.

In the Iranian restaurant in Paddington I’m licking hummus off my fingers and making a doomed attempt to talk to D about the garden.

“…so I was thinking maybe a silver birch or a rowan. What do you think?”

“I think…you should tell me what knickers you’re wearing under those tights.”

“A black thong, and don’t change the subject.”

“The subject is always what knickers you’re wearing. You’re the one who interrupts with it with fluffy-headed female nonsense about gardening and whether I’m staring at that girl on the train; which I absolutely wasn’t.”

Later, as he’s paying the bill, he sends me to the ladies to take off the thong. This is easier said than done as it also involves, in a very tight space, taking off my coat, balancing my bag on top of the cistern, retrieving the lipstick that falls out of my bag and rolls behind the pedestal, unzipping my boots without putting a pig hole in my tights, taking off my tights, taking off my thong, putting my tights and boots back on without causing any damage, putting my coat back on and then standing for several minutes with my cheeks pressed against the tiles by the sink to try to calm down my flushed face.

He’s standing on the pavement outside smoking impatiently when I finally emerge and I stuff my knickers in his pocket.

Standing at a taxi rank, I lean against the railings of a big cream stucco house. D stands beside me, his hand slid through the vent in the back of my coat and underneath my skirt, stroking my arse through my tights. There are other people around, some pass close by but it’s London so nobody notices anything.

In the taxi, I shift in my seat, the seam that runs through the crotch of my tights digging into the folds of my cunt. I can feel its wetness and I open the window a fraction, worried that the scent of cunt will slowly fill the cab. D smiles happily at me than looks away, out of the window, grinning to himself. He’s enjoying this.

In the darkened hallway I drop my bag on the floor as he peels my coat off.

“Touch your toes.”

I stretch, spreading my legs for balance, unsteady in my boots. He stands behind me, watching my skirt ride up and the tights strain across my buttocks. My hair falls over my face so I can only listen to the slow, menacing unzip of his cock and the sudden rip as his fingers burst through the tights and tear them open along the seam.

Why There Was No Prawn Curry

In an idle moment, I put my hair up in an asymmetric pony tail. D stood behind me in the kitchen twirling it with one hand and eating toast with the other.

“I like this. It’s a useful carrying handle.”

“Go away, I’m defrosting prawns.”

“That’s not actually something you need to actively do, though, is it? They defrost on their own whether you’re standing there watching them or not.”

“You’re being tiresome now.”

“I could use it to yank your head suddenly to one side and snap your neck.”

“If you do, there won’t be prawn curry for supper.”

There wasn’t prawn curry. There was kneeling up on a kitchen chair and sharp hissing or air between clenched teeth and the hot sting of leather between my thighs. There was also a short period of intense negotiation, during which I was disadvantaged by crouching on the floor with D’s belt around my neck. And finally there was spunk dripping from my tongue and D’s breath on my face as his lips brushed my cheek and my top lip.

He wound my pony tail around his fist and tugged my head to one side, lightly biting my neck.

“Are you my girl?”

A Subtle Reproof

I’m sad to report that the cock ring has not been an unqualified success. I think D has taken it as a subtle reproof and no amount of my enthusing about its design qualities or offering to squirm around on top of it has really engaged his enthusiasm.

He did, however, find a use for the pink bondage tape as I discovered, in black bra and stockings rolled down to my knees, with my knickers balled up in my mouth and the tape wound round and round my head, covering my mouth. I could feel the damp fabric fluttering as I took shallow breaths and looked up at him nervously.

He knelt up on the bed between my legs, slowly stroking his cock and rubbing the pad of his thumb over its tip, squeezing out the first glistening drop of cum as he watched me tensely watching him, my fingers curling and uncurling against the bedclothes as I shifted uneasily, my breasts swelling against the edge of my bra as my ribs rose and fell.

With one sudden, fluid motion he had lifted my thighs, spreading my legs high and wide as he surged over me, sinking his cock into my slit and crushing my ribs. Cupping my cheeks in his hands, he pressed his lips hard against my ear, hissing, “Take it, you little cunt” and he jabbed his cock with sharp, vicious stabs into my squelching flesh.

His breathy grunts filled my ear as his body slammed against mine and I screwed my eyes shut, my pulse throbbing loudly in my temples until, with a bellow in my ear he pumped his spunk into me, his cock and belly twitching as he shuddered and slumped heavily onto me.

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling, little sparks of light fluttering at the corners of my eyes as I felt my pulse slow. I coughed; a small, throat-clearing cough which drew the lace of my knickers just a little deeper into my mouth. Suddenly I was pushing him off me, coughing harder, my face red as I clutched at the tape. He smacked my hands away and carefully unwound it, dragging my skin slightly as he peeled it off my cheeks and tugging it eye-wateringly from my hair.

I sat on the edge of the bed with my arms folded round my tummy, coughing weakly for a moment. I stood on wobbly legs, sat down abruptly, fluttery with adrenaline, not sure what to do. D lit a cigarette, watching me slowly come down, my face lose its pinkness as I gradually lay down again stiffly beside him, then eventually rolled towards him, letting him drape his arm around my shoulders and pull me tight. He turned his face towards mine, then lifted his head to blow a stream of smoke away from my face before turning back to kiss my forehead and murmur, “You’re a good little cunt.”

Bye Bye Belle

Another day, another sex blogger is outed. Today it’s Brooke Magnanti, as we must now call Belle du Jour, who turned up late last night on the Sunday Times’ website, apparently ‘outing herself’ after a loud-mouthed ex-boyfriend went running to them with the story.

The moral of this story is, if you’re an anonymous sex blogger, don’t tell anyone because you can’t trust them when there’s money to be made. No, maybe the moral is, don’t write online about your sex life? Oh, I don’t know what the moral is. I have no morals.

Pink Is The New Black

A girlie day today. Lynda came round with photos from Halloween of the pair of us dressed approximately as cats (cue snarling at the camera while sporting velvet headbands with cat ears) and then she dragged me all the way to Hoxton while I kept up a constant barrage of, “But I’m cold. My umbrella’s all floppy. I think I’ve got a poorly knee.” It was worth it though because she took me to Sh! Which is a women-only sex shop (it’s pink).

We both bought something called Flower Clitoral Orgasm Enhancer. This comes in a stylish little tin and looks rather like lip balm – in fact we tried it in the shop by rubbing it on our lips and yes, tingly throbbing stuff happened. Lynda also bought some rhinestone handcuffs and I bought some pink bondage tape (pink is the new black) and for D I bought a cock ring.

When I say I bought it for D, what I really mean is that I’m going to hand it to D but it’s a present for me. It’s made by Lelo, which is the Swedish company who made my favourite i-pod style vibrator. Because it’s for men it comes in manly colours. I chose burgundy – why you can almost smell the rich mahogany, button-back Chesterfields and cigar smoke of an exclusive gentlemen’s club. It’s elegant, minimalist, rechargeable and contains no instructions about which way up you wear it. Does the vibrating bit go at the top or the bottom? Only extensive trial and error can answer this question.

In the tea shop, while I crammed my face with coffee and walnut cake and lemon drizzle cake because I couldn’t decide and I’m a fat pig, Lynda’s mind wandered to the tin burning a hole in her pocket. “I’m going to try it now” she announced and scurried off into the ladies, leaving me spraying crumbs as I tried to answer her. There was nothing for it; taking the remainder of the lemon drizzle cake with me, I followed her.

We sat opposite each other on the train, sneaking sly looks at one another, dimpling as we tried not to laugh and ostentatiously crossing and uncrossing our legs, squirming slightly in our seats and sighing theatrically. The pleasing warmth and tingle of blood rushing into our clits subsided long before the journey was over, but the suppressed hysteria kept us sufficiently wound up to break into a little run as we neared Lynda’s flat, scrambling laughing up the stairs and flopping onto her bed.

Lynda pinned me on my back with my hands over my head as she wriggled her fingers underneath tights and knickers while I struggled and moaned “No, please, I’m a virgin! They’ll make me leave the convent if they catch us!” I was struck dumb by a sudden, sharp, intense orgasm that left me slumped on the bed, eyes and mouth perfect Os of surprise. “Golly!”

If you’ve been paying attention, you’ll have spotted Lynda making a tactical error in buying rhinestone handcuffs. It took a considerable struggle and a banged elbow (hers) and shin (mine) before she was safely locked up. But then there was absolutely nothing to stop me spending the rest of the afternoon teasing, tickling, blowing on but not quite bringing to orgasm her swollen clit, while she kicked her legs furiously and screamed and called me several names I’m too well brought up to repeat here.

Noisy Appreciativeness

Lolling on my back, with my hands behind my head and my knees flopping apart, I’m damp and lightly pulsing and very happy. D’s charity-themed moustache is working out very well for me. I’ve re-thought my decision to grow back a certain amount of carefully-sculpted bush. For the full moustache-on-flesh impact it has to be stripped bare.

And he’s been encouraged by my noisy appreciativeness, kneeling on a pillow on the floor, nibbling and licking my frilly bits, cautiously avoiding my clit because after two orgasms in quick succession he’s liable to get a clonk on the head if he touches it directly now.

He slides his hands under my bum and pulls me sharply towards him, plunging his tongue right into my cunt and lapping, the bridge of his nose pressed hard against the underside of my clit. Now, I have the option here of grabbing fistfuls of his hair and jerking his head away because I did tell him I needed a little rest. But I’m an indulgent girlfriend. I lift my legs into the air, holding my thighs apart and groan, shuddering as prickly moustache brushes my clit and D clamps his lips firmly around my clit and sucks.

Pointing Incredulously With My Mittens

On a quiet slope of Hampstead Heath we eat cheese and pickle sandwiches and have a bit of a snog. This is D’s reward for having spent a good part of the morning trailing after me while I look for a Saxon ditch. I’m not convinced we ever found it and to be honest, now that D’s actually lying on top of me with his hand up my jumper, I don’t care very much. I just pull up the furry hood of my anorak and wrap my mittened hands around his waist.

It’s at this point that the man with a Jack Russell on a lead walks past.

“Excuse me! Excuse me, I’m sorry to interrupt.” D sits up, his hand still up my jumper. The man smiles at me, “Sorry.”

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” he continues, addressing D, “but is that a Zapata moustache?”

D fingers it and explains that it will be eventually and he’s growing it for Movember, which is a charity event in support of prostate cancer… And they’re off chatting. Man with dog remembers having a Zapata moustache in the 1970s. No, D hasn’t grown a moustache before but he occasionally sports a beard. Man with dog had a neighbour who had prostate cancer, he was a friend of Francis Bacon. Oh, D's mother once had a terrific row with Francis Bacon...

After some minutes, man with dog waves cheerily and heads off towards Parliament Hill. D smiles down at me, “Wasn’t he nice?”

I point incredulously with my mittens at D’s hand, still resting on my left boob inside my jumper. After a moment he focuses on the problem. “Oh, sorry love.”

Not Just Randomly Sadistic

Breakfast in a greasy spoon cafe; we eat bacon sandwiches with HP sauce and drink bright orange tea from mugs. D grips my chin between his finger and thumb and draws me towards him across the table, licking a dribble of sauce from my bottom lip then nipping it between his teeth. I wriggle in my plastic chair, my bum pink and tender from this morning’s whipping.

D laughs at me, “Still sore?”

“No.” My face is hot from such an obvious lie.

“I mustn’t be doing it hard enough.”

He is. It’s time to distract him so I fiddle crossly with my bra strap. “Tsk, I can’t get this adjusted properly; it’s such a problem when they’re new.” I sneak a glance at his face. Good, bovine expressionlessness. That’s the correct male response to a flash of chartreuse green satin bra. I’ve been shopping early for Christmas at Top Shop and while I couldn’t resist breaking out the green satin immediately, I have safely squirreled away the peach sequined hotpants and matching bra for a more festive occasion.

Having reasserted the balance of power in the relationship, I take a big glug of tea. My throat is still raw from the struggle to hold his cock all the way down while he timed me. I’m not absolutely convinced this was the result of an erotic impulse in him; it might equally have been because he has a silly new watch with lots of buttons and gadgets and they were the real turn on. Anyway, things we learned form this include: D needs to take his watch off so he can press the button with one hand and grip my hair with the other; holding my nose is not a significant help; and I can do 50 seconds with a moderate amount of struggling and gagging before the urge to vomit makes me shove him away. My failure to manage a whole minute is what earned me my whipping this morning; I wouldn’t want you to think he was just randomly sadistic or anything.

New Toys

The two plain silver rings have a chunky, rippled, handmade feel to them. Slipped over my thumbs, the chain between them is pulled tight, pinning my shoulders back, my hands flat against the curve of my arse.

I’m still dressed for work. D unbuttons my blouse and pulls it down over my shoulders, tugging the straps of my bra with it until my tits spill over the lace of the cups. I step out of my skirt and he kneels on the floor before me, hooking his finger into the back of my thong, twisting it and pulling it tight until my slit is outlined against the stretched fabric. He licks it, his tongue dragging against the lace and I shift my feet, spreading my legs a little wider as I watch him. He runs his hands up the backs of my thighs, smoothing them over nylon stockings, then bare flesh and finally yanking my thong down roughly. I stumble against him as I lift my feet and he smacks my thigh hard, leaving a faint pink mark.

Sitting on the dressing table stool, I watch him with wide eyes as he pads around the room, slowly undressing, absently checking his texts, standing for a moment with his forehead pressed against the window, peering into the darkness of the street. I am silent with my lips stretched around the handle of a whip, my cheek bulging and its leather thongs dangling between my breasts, brushing against them gently as I breathe heavily.

He curls a thong around the end of his finger and I dig my teeth into the handle as he leads me to the edge of the bed. He slowly draws the handle from my mouth as I lie back, my arms trapped beneath me and obediently lift my legs up in the air, straight and together for a moment before I let them fall open. He lays the thongs of the whip along my slit and strokes my swollen lips with them. I shiver as they brush my damp skin and flinch as a single thong slides between my lips, its stiff edge drawn across the side of my clit, snagging between its hood and its swollen red nub.

With a flick of his wrist, he whisks the whip against the hollow of my thigh and I squeak as a knot of sharp stings prickles my flesh. Again, the other thigh, then quickly, the fold of my buttocks, making me gasp as the tip of a thong snaps against the inner fold of my cunt. Then SNAP against my open cunt. I scream and my legs tremble and fold for a moment before I recover, breathing raggedly as I stretch them wide and straight again. He waits for me to finish then SNAP, harder this time, I scream louder and my cunt throbs hotly as I hiss air between my clenched teeth, my tits heaving as I struggle to control my shaking body. With an effort, I stretch my legs out again.

He curls and uncurls his fingers on the handle of the whip, weighing it in his hand. I close my eyes and listen to my breathing, aware of the film of sweat on my skin and my blouse sticking to it. The wait goes on and I flutter my eyelids open, find him watching me, waiting for me to look.

SNAP, SNAP, SNAP, I half yelp, half sob, curling up and rolling awkwardly onto my side, slithering clumsily off the bed until I’m kneeling on the floor, my face buried in the bedclothes. I bite into them hard as my cunt burns and pulses. Without waiting for me to recover, he sinks his cock easily into my melting slit, hooking a finger over the chain between my thumb rings as he starts to pump. I feel a flush of anger and humiliation and I squirm, spitting out the bedclothes and twisting to look back through my hair. “Stop, I want to stop.”

He pauses, still holding the chain and looks at me levelly for a moment. Then he leans forward, brushing the hair from my face to kiss my neck and firmly says, “No.”

I love him for saying no and moan loudly as he fucks me harder, his thighs smacking against my buttocks. He lifts the chain, hoisting my arms up, wrenching my aching shoulders. I try to shift my stiff knees and awaken an agony of pins and needles in them, panting loudly as he draws his cock out and straddles my back, his cock resting in my hands. I curl my fingers around it and let him fuck it through my fingers, spurting them with sticky strands of spunk.

I roll onto my hip, curl my legs up, letting the heavy throb of numbness slowly bring them back to life. D puts his arms around me to slide the rings from my thumbs but we bump noses, laughing awkwardly. I steal a kiss and whisper, “Not yet.”

Italian Vices

Venice was well-behaved while we were there; it only flooded very slightly on one evening. Because we’re idiots, we sat in the restaurant watching with great interest as men with trolleys erected duckboards. We even noted that we appeared to be the last people left in the restaurant and everyone else seemed to have gone home early. It was only when we actually tried to go back to our hotel, and spotted people wading past with bin bags knotted around their feet, that we put two and two together and got seven. “Ah,” we thought, “this must be the famous Acqua Alta that we could have seen coming if we had a shred of common sense between us.”

I’ve discovered that the best and possibly only technique for climbing onto a duckboard in a short, tight skirt is the one that involves showing my bottom to all the waiters in the restaurant and D heroically got wet to a depth of two inches carrying me from the end of the duckboards to the hotel.

On the other days we had blazing, non-Novemberish sunshine. On Torcello we lay on the grass under the campanile in our t-shirts, blinking through sunglasses. While I went in to gaze at gloomy Byzantine mosaics, D attracted cats until he had six keeping guard (or keeping him hostage, it’s hard to be sure as Torcello is an island that seems to belong to cats which kindly permit people to visit as long as they bring sandwiches and chin scratching with them).

Venice isn’t a late-night kind of city so we had plenty of early nights for me to indulge one of my favourite vices – Italian television. Seriously, it’s the home of the incomprehensible game show and I got addicted to one that superficially resembled Who Wants to Be a Millionaire but with dancing and eight contestants, all of whom brought their families with them, every member of which was interviewed before any questions were asked. I never even got close to working out the rules and I swear at one point a woman got knocked out because she was standing next to someone who got a question wrong.

Also of some puzzlement was the local news where the big story appeared to be the funeral of a woman with stigmata. Archive footage showed an elderly lady with jet-black dyed hair and very obviously self-inflicted scars. Rather than being in the more conventional hands and feet positions, these were up her arms and on her knees. On her right knee she had an unintentionally hilarious face of Jesus and on her left knee a less recognisable face that most closely resembled Chewbacca from Star Wars. Proof, if any more were needed, that God does indeed move in mysterious ways.

D’s great pleasure in European cities is going to supermarkets. I tease him about this but secretly agree with him that it’s great. We can quite happily spend up to an hour in the local Co-op reading packets of foreign biscuits and gazing at fierce-looking, unfamiliar fish, and we’ve come home with our usual haul of Italian groceries.

We’ve been to Venice often enough to pass as jaded and sneery Europeans towards confused American tourists (it’s the only consolation the English have since we lost the Empire) and this trip’s ‘tourism excellence’ prize goes to the girls who asked us if we knew where St Peter’s was (it’s in Rome) with runner-up prize going to the lady who dealt with the unfamiliar availability of cake in the hotel’s breakfast buffet by solemnly eating her muffin with a knife and fork.

My only slight disappointment was that the hotel, a former Doge's palace with silk wall-hangings, Murano glass chandeliers and Medieval ceiling beams was not, as promised by one of the comments on Venere.com 'an ideal location for visiting Venus'.