Lady in Red (Sinful Sunday) 

Title chosen under duress because it was number one the day I was born. Yuck. 

Another entry in the accidental series of photos referencing our habit of matching, this one sees M tenderly redoing my toenails to match his own (red for LFC) 

I can’t stop looking at this image and smiling. My M looking after me.

See who else is being sinful this Sunday by clicking below 

Sinful Sunday

A Man Walks into a Bar (WIP)

When Exhibit A gave me false hope he had been mistaken for a stripper in a pub and taken this to its logical conclusion, my mind began to wander. It’s still wandering now, but here’s a taster:

A Man Walks into a Bar

Unassuming and polite, with a businessman’s briefcase and a sly smile, when he enters the pub he’s selected a random for a swift half, he’s confronted by a vortex of pink feather bowers and glittery cock-shaped deely-boppers, scented with flowers and sweetness and assertive female sexuality. The British Hen Party.

One woman notices his smarter-than-average appearance – three piece suit, tie pin, pocket square – and alerts the others. Contrary to their appearance, this confab is hushed and respectful of the other patrons, and he watches them out of the corner of his eye as he buys his drink and finds an empty table away from the hubub but not so far from theirs that he can’t surreptitiously eye the ranks and catch the odd snippet of something salacious.

For example, an older woman with dark eyes, framed behind thick rimmed glasses wrapped in a gold dress fighting a losing battle with her voluptuousness immediately grabs his attention and refuses to let go. Her voice is deep and rippled with honey, and even with her head very close to the companion closest to her, he hears snatches of a tale his cock is desperate to know the outcome of.

“He grabbed my thigh and his hand went higher [slurp of wine, leans in closer] fingers behind my knee [slurp of wine, reaches for top up, becomes unintelligible for a minute or so, until] came in my knickers and made me wear them home.”

He wonders if she’d care to replay this narrative with a slightly different outcome – as the thought of burying his face between her matronly thighs begins to fester and hook itself around his synapses.

In his reverie he undoes his jacket – boy is it hot in here all of a sudden – and doesn’t notice when a redhead with poise notices the flash of movement, until she raises her voice.

“Hey, it’s the stripper!” and they collapse into half-drunken giggles as he smiles and shakes his head, accepting his change.

“Take it off! Take it off!” she continues, appropriating Taylor Swift’s anthem with urgency, a couple of voices joining hers and agitating the other patrons, who raise their voices in combat, calling for silence. Others take the traditional British way out and take their leave, with poisonous looks at the pink army before they do.

It’s been a long day for him; conferences and endless, bitterly boring meetings only broken up by a lunch with limp, sweaty sandwiches and tea that was an affront to the least patriotic Englishman.

He sips his beer and shudders, looking forward to comfort food, pasta and three different continental cheeses, when he eventually gets home some time after nine. Checking his watch, he notes he has an hour to kill – more like 90 minutes if he forgoes the traditional wander around Smiths subtly checking out the last vestiges of the top shelf mags, then nipping to M&S for some wine to complement dinner. But there’s wine at home, there’s always wine at home.

The hens are still debating. It’s summer, so under their warriors garb, they’re universally stripped to the barest of glamorous essentials. He notes the bounty of bare legs, from pasty white to deep burnt umber and everything between, though cleavages are mostly hidden under fluorescent duck down. As he considers for the eightieth time whether he truly is a tit man or a leg man, one of the women breaks ranks and, with a nod to her companions, makes her way over to him.

All fingers and thumbs (Kink of The Week)

The concept of ‘fingering’ had never much appealed to me. The idea of being impaled on someone’s digits like a finger puppet made my blood run cold, and if a porn scene ever headed in that direction, the sight of the person whose fingers were doing the playing pistoning their arm back and forth like they were chopping firewood made me feel queasy.

I get it now though. I understand. The first time I allowed him to gently extend one of his digits inside my cunt – as he ate me out like a man who’d been starved for a month – I writhed on the bed, alarmed that it felt so good. We’d compared the size of our hands – his dextrous guitarist’s fingers versus my chubby toddler digits, complete with dimples where my knuckles ought to be – and laughed. We joked about how small hands make everything look bigger, but I didn’t think about how longer, more nimble fingers could reach the places that need to be reached, and even conjure the unicorn with the right kind of external and internal pressure. I began to find myself whining “Finger me” with startling regularity. And he always obliged. I had always thought the act was something that men did because they thought women liked it, not because it actually felt good to receive it. I was wrong. I was very wrong.

I’m still getting there. Sometimes, because of my inexperience and his relatively large size, penetrative sex isn’t an option for us, but his fingers…. As he ducks his head to worship at the altar, or directs me in using a toy with his fingers reaching the parts my own, babyish ones can’t….. I might not ever be able to go back to masturbating without his hand between my thighs, my fingers hooked through his. Being fingered feels too good. It might be my favourite thing.

As soon as I saw this fortnight’s topic, I knew the only way I could end a post on fingering would be with this image from the always hilarious FRED FLETCH on Twitter. Sure, it’s not exactly sexy and is pretty jarring coming after the above, but this is my blog and I’ll do what I like so ner.

More? Check out everyone else on Kink of the Week below

Glastonbury 

So last year I was writing this revenge fantasy about a dickhead who did me wrong. It includes this passage alluding to an occasion whilst watching festival footage on TV. 

The audio is housed on my alternative/old blog but if you’d like to visit it:

Here it is.
Enjoy. 

Nightmare (Wicked Wednesday)

Note: DD/lg kink – if Daddies and their littles are not your bag, you can skip this one. Both characters are significantly over 18, and are not related to one another.

Emily awoke sweating, trembling and paralysed with the fear of a dream she couldn’t quite remember. She turned her face into the pillow and rubbed her forehead against the rough texture of his sheets. The coarse fabric on her skin was soothing, but still she gulped for air, which wasn’t easy with a mouthful of pillowcase.

Emily began to whimper, her eyes streaming, her nose running and her body crushed at the very edge of the bed.

He was asleep. She didn’t want to bother him with the bad dream that had turned her into a crumpled child, so instead she whimpered some more. Whimpering wasn’t helping so she opened her mouth and began to suck her thumb, digging her teeth into the pad and paddling her feet into the duvet until they were trapped between the layers.

In the dream she was swimming. The water turned to a thick, bitter syrup and choked her, then she felt a hand on the back of her neck, holding her down. Her feet began to sink into the muddy bottom of the pool and that was when she began to struggle and woke up grateful for the warm, clear air of the bedroom.

She couldn’t put it off any longer. She’d tried to cope like a big girl and it hadn’t worked. Emily rolled over to where he was flat on his back, snoring gently, the fur on his chest rising and falling. She rested her head where the thickest pelt grew and spoke downwards into his belly button.

“Daddy?”

He sleepily placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him.

“You had a bad dream.”
“I had a bad dream.” She sniffed in agreement. “I’m getting snot in your chest hair.”
“Doesn’t matter. What was your dream, kitten?”

“Choking….. drowning….. there was mud…… I couldn’t…….” she trailed off, sinking into happiness, curling her tongue around the hair. She placed her hand around the base of his cock, the comforter, the source of serenity, and snuggled closer to him.

“There, there. Shush…… You’re ok now my love.”
He kissed the top of her head and she ran her thumb down the shaft gently, repetitive, even strokes. The skin was smooth and warm under her fingers and made her happy. Happy and sleepy. She smiled into his chest.

“I love you, Daddy. Night night.”

Yawning, she wrapped her body around his like a warm winter coat, and was soon asleep, the bad dream all but forgotten; her brow soothed.

More Wicked Wednesdays this way!

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

The past is another country (with better spelling)

I have a lovely and caring boyfriend who often brings thoughtful and charming gifts – a bunch of flowers in my favourite colour, chocolates that bear an uncanny resemblence to his chosen pet name for me, every brand of throat sweet when I came down with tonsillitis two months into our relationship…. He’s pretty wonderful.
Not long after we’d started seeing each other, he was going away on a business trip, involving an internal flight.

I asked him politely if he would mind supporting my Toblerone habit and gifting me one of their airport specials – salted almond (as delicious as it sounds, trust me). He agreed. And I can’t remember when, but at some point I casually asked if he’d buy me a porn mag. And he agreed to that, too.

I’m a bit obsessed with analogue porn. My first exposure to erotic material was my older brother’s hidden stash of Fiesta at a stupidly young age (under double digits). I can still remember some of the images – women in plastic macs – and peculiar phrases describing an orgasm as a ‘mushrooming fireball of lust’. I liked the stories more than the pictures, the excitement of the adult experiences I was yet to master.

I’m a little too young to remember the halcyon days of finding shreds of Page 3 girls in the woods; by the time I was entering puberty the internet was taking a hold and it was pretty easy to find naked ladies/men/combinations thereof as was your taste, through a quick visit to AskJeeves. Then there was late night softcore shenanigans on C5. I remember the thrill of catching a few moments of the 1970s adaptation of Fanny Hill – I’d devoured the BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejdudice, and the idea of a pornographic costume drama was the holy grail.

I got older and internet speeds got faster and watching porn online became as easy as checking the news or buying tat on ebay. But the thrill of leafing through a magazine, with its adverts for expensive chat lines, and weirdly sexy cartoons, and Readers Wives pages with their neat black bar across the entrant’s eyes, never dissipated, even though I was far too chicken to walk into a Newsagents and congidently purchase a copy of Razzle. Over a decade later though, here I was with a compliant boyfriend who wanted me to be happy and a happy me was a me with a porn mag in her lap.

He presented it to me in my bedroom. He’d asked me what kind I’d like – “chubby girls,” was my response. And these were beautiful, voluptuous women. Pages and pages of them in various softcore poses. And interspersed with them, the usual, borderline offensively written adverts for sex chatlines. But that was all. No stories. No articles. No grainy shots of amateurs. I was grateful for the gift, but a little disappointed with the publisher.

Cut to a couple of months later. He’s on another work trip away, he knows the drill. Goes into an upmarket adult store and asks for porn mags. “No dice. No call for it. Print media is dying out.”

5 minutes later he messages me again in a bog standard newsagents, choc-a-bloc with mags of every description. “No call for it – Hah!” He buys us a three pack, which we devour over the course of a few days around planned family obligations. There are articles in these magazines. There are even reviews in these magazines! (I was geninely surprised at that.) But fancy porn store man has a point, too. Because, well….. These magazines are BAD. Not the features artistes, who are very beautiful in a variety of different ways. Not because they are exploitative or borderline illegal, at least not that I can see.

They’re still making porn mags. But they’re putting fuck-all effort into the formatting of those mags. It’s like they’ve given up hope, which I think is pretty sad. I’ll leave you with some examples below of actual text from the magazines my loving and patient partner purchased for me.  Vowels and consonents all over the shop.

They are not a reflection on his love or on our relationship, merely a reminder that pointless nostalgia is just that, and some things *were* better in the past.

 

Hands, knees and bumps-a-daisy (Wicked Wednesday)

Those of us who grew up in the country will know at least one person who learnt to drive doing circuits of their uncle’s field at a frighteningly young age, probably without a seatbelt.

We were visiting his parents, and within that visit, spending an afternoon in the barn conversion of some parental friends. Everyone else had gone on ahead, whilst I, being terrible at decision making at the best of times, had spent ten minutes picking out shoes, ended up making us late. And lateness breeds unfortunate consequences.

We drove along personably enough for ten minutes, out of the suburbs with their neat-ish gardens and rows of newer terraces with useless chimneys and Chelsea tractors in the driveways. Once the houses began to peter out and were replaced by sprawling fields and dotted homesteads, his manner changed. He pulled into a layby a couple of minutes later, and without turning to look at me, ordered me into the back of the car.

“And take this. You’ll need something to keep your mouth busy.” he handed me the hdeously-coloured suction cup dildo we mostly kept because it made us giggle. No one was even smirking, now.

I didn’t argue, and went to sit in the back. I could see him looking at me in the rear view mirror as I leant over and closed the passenger door.

“No, on your knees. Hands and knees. All fours. Like a dog.”

I nodded again and assumed the position. He started the car and pulled away, continuing on the journey as I concentrated on keeping myself upright, the silicone cock hitting the top of my mouth with every bend of the road.

“Knickers down.” He called out, turning left down a narrow dirt road with high fields of wheat on either side. I pressed my face into the seat for balance as I reached under my skirt and pulled the underwear to my knees.

The dildo bulged obscenely against my cheek as he slowed down.

“Now, there’s another five minutes of slow driving down this lane until we get to the house. You’re going to take that cock and stick it against the car door – that’s right.” He registered approval in the tilted central mirror as I took the spit drenched tool out of my mouth and passed it between my legs, both of us watching as I used all my viable strength to smack it against the plastic surface and hoped it would hold.

“You don’t need me to tell you what to do next, do you?”

I shook my head, and slowly impaled myself on the dildo, my eyes never leaving the reflection of his. He said there was five minutes until our arrival, but who knew how honest he was being? It could be two minutes, leaving me pinned to the car via my dripping cunt as a small crowd of well-wishers crowded round to meet the prodigal son’s girlfriend. The unlikely outcome that they would press their faces against the glass and call for the windows to be opened so they could paw at me, taunt me, and some of them could show their appreciation for my display with a shower of approval, to be licked off by still others….. that kept me going as the shadows of the farmer’s wheat  dwindled away and the later afternoon sun cast its shadows over my body as we approached the house. My only intention was to make the most of the punishment he had chosen, and the minutes to enjoy it he had so generously given.

See who else is being wicked this Wednesday below!

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Lessons learnt

Good morning little schoolgirl, can I come home with you?
Tell your mom and your papa, I’m a little schoolboy too.
– Sunny Boy Williams, Good Morning Schoolgirl

I played this song a lot when I was younger. Perhaps it was always going to happen, my dad is a massive blues fan, and it’s an absolute standard.
The version I became borderline obsessed with featured Jeff Beck on guitar – accounting for the captivating, almost discordant opening riff which gave me an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach. And the lyrics, of course.

I had a school uniform kink from an obscenely young age. Whenever I saw a grown adult don short trousers and badly knotted tie (and this is England, it’s almost a national pastime), my eyes almost lit up. Something about the veneer of innocence barely concealing maturity, experience and sexual allure. I wanted to be that girl, giving you the eye whilst seeming prim.

At eighteen I head to university and the all-important nightclub event, the school disco. I photograph myself looking shy and vulnerable and label this look as ‘the gymslip mafia’. I will don school uniform for two other costume parties, and somehow no one notices that I seem to have a very limited imagination.

I recognise the power of the visual. The appeal of the short-ish skirt, the promise of fresh white underwear beneath. I’m very particular, very fussy. I spent a year buying and discarding various pinafores that didn’t live up to my gymslip fantasies. I don’t approve of so-called ‘sexy’ schoolgirl kits or costumes. A school blouse does not tie at the waist, and a school skirt does not fall at mid thigh, And really, it shouldn’t be tartan either (see? I’m hardcore.)

So there I am. clean black mary janes and long navy blue socks on my feet. the socks stop at mid thigh, my pinafore falls just below my knees. A pale grey blouse and a black cardigan, both of which distance me from my old school colours.  I wear my school tie, of course. Authenticity is key. I’ve procured badges, made myself Head Girl AND a Prefect (Star pupil, butter wouldn’t melt, innocent and trustworthy, such a girl does not harbour impure throughts or dark fantasies).

Incidentally I was a Prefect at school, but everyone was a fucking Prefect. There was something of a dearth. Anyway. Then there’s the hair. Bunches or pigtails, something to grip. Underwear and make up choices are up to Him. He decides if I am pure or wicked. Saint or sinner.

The air of the schoolroom extends to my tastes within the D/s dynamic of my relationship, too. Corporal punishment, standing in the corner and writing lines all features as forms of discipline He has used and will continue to use to improve my behaviour.

And long may that continue.

Before
After