Educate.

Initially recorded as spoken word, listen to the original here

 

I want you to tell me things. I want you to challenge me.

Beat me at Scrabble – cross triple words, double letters, a hundred points scored in a single go and know it makes me shivery to see you do so.

I like it when you make me feel small, when you protect me.

When you educate me.

Explain things that I don’t understand – the mysteries of football, and how to make stuffing from scratch and that a griddle pan is not the best choice for frying an egg.

Smile ruefully when I get things wrong, on purpose. When I demand a bacon sandwich but won’t release you from my caress, but still demand breakfast sweetly in your ear as my arm holds fast around your waist.

Instruct me in my own independence. Send me on errands, with shopping lists and the money in my pocket. Trust me as you want me to trust myself when I fear I can’t. Etch tiny kisses at the bottom of the note for me to catch when I check I’m doing ok.

Teach me things about you – How you take your tea (milky, no sugar), how to grill bacon so it doesn’t curl at the edges, and how you like to be touched.

Let me take mental notes on how you touched yourself before you knew me – please let me watch you. I will never be as good as you but I can try, I can try to be good and do my best for you. Hold my fingers around you so I can hear the catch in your breath, the release of your moan and replicate them without your guidance.

Guide me in my own pleasure. Handle me gently and roughly and gently again. Shape me and test me. Soothe me to the brink of pleasure and finish me.

Teach me my beauty.

My worth.

Hold up the glass and make me stare at myself as you do; I want to see what you see. To understand what you know.

Your knowledge is my nourishment.

 

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On Dick Pics

It’s not for everybody, I know. Some people just don’t need or want to see your bits and pieces other than when you’re getting down to business, and some people don’t want their junk committed to the memory of their Samsung Galaxy.
Some girls like to be sent photos of your cock – and they will always let you know if this is the case.

This isn’t a cry to start taking arty shots if either person in a sex-based situation isn’t entirely up for it. You do you.

There is a belief amongst some people that if a woman expresses a positive interest in sex (even if that sex explicitly does not involve a penis), there are men who are sure that what these women really want is cock; they remember that they have a cock, and they pass on badly-taken photographs of that cock, patting themselves on the back because they have ‘cracked what women want’.

These men are incredulous when we are disgusted, when we ask them what the fuck they’re playing at.

Conversely you can be the quietest, modestest, bible-studying femme on Twitter and still some arsehole will show you his junk because…. Oh I dunno, they think their penis is the one true cock to turn you into the rampant erotomachine you were born to be?

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Fancy

“He’s got a trademark.”
Fancy was washing my hair at the time. Her short nails sent shocks through my nervous system every time she lathered; it felt good.

“A what?”
“A trademark. He’s got a way, with a weapon.”

“Oh.”
“And you’ll be experiencing it tonight, my love.”
“Yes Miss.”

Fancy dunked my head under the cold bathwater without warning.

“Get dressed.”

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Knives are New

“Time for games” he said. Tuesday. Early work finish day. New underwear day.

I had got home before him, so was lying face up on the bed, staring at the ceiling when he arrived, the skein of rope lying across my stomach. Naked.

I heard the door unlocked, opened, shut.

“Just going for a piss.” He called out. He wasn’t, he was just making me wait. Teasing.

“Resting bitch face isn’t actually a thing.” He said when he finally walked through the doorway, most unimpressed with my pouting. “If the wind changes, you’ll stay like that.”

He held the paper bag above his head.

“Freshly laundered, Madame.”

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Gone to Earth

“Let’s go for a walk,” he had said.

“It’s cold.” I protested.

He looked at me evenly.

“And?”

He laced me into my boots. bare legs, a summer dress that was too small. No bra. No knickers. My breasts threatened to escape. I didn’t protest further. “Go and put on your parka.” he ordered.

I was stood by the front door when he came back, dressed warmly.

“Don’t you look adorable? Let’s go.” He held out his hand and lead me out into the street, and into the car. There were grey clouds gathering in the sky.

“It’s going to rain.” I said, looking out of the window.

“That doesn’t matter.”

We drove for over an hour. Halfway through, as the roads became narrower, the scenery greener, he put his hand on my thigh and pushed the material of my skirt up to my waist, lingering briefly at my cunt.

“You’re wet.” he said approvingly.

Some minutes later, he slowed the car and parked up.

“Here we are. Time for some fresh air.”

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If

If you were here, Sir, and you were wearing your suit, I would kneel. I would ask you if I could have your cock. If you thought I was good, you would present your engorged cock through your flies. I would work the spit up on my tongue and lick the head first.

You’d push on the back of my head so I took more of you in my mouth. You want me to choke on you, prove that I need your cock more than air.

I’d take more, working my tongue as much as I could, one of my hands on the shaft but the other travelling between my thighs without permission because I’m so wet just at the feeling of you in my mouth, at hearing your voice

You know I’m doing it and you let me feel how wet I am before you grab my hair and make me choke more as punishment, calling me a filthy, wet slut.

I was dressed when you came in, as punishment you remove your cock from my hungry mouth and you strip me, taking off my dress, my underwear, everything until I’m naked. Before you can even continue face fucking me, you bend me over the sofa and I know what’s coming and the sting of your belt makes me yelp

Ten strokes

Bruises

I deserve it

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Dahlia learns her lesson

In 2016, I participated in Emmeline’s Team Amazeballs Erotica Exchange – we gave one another a prompt, and she asked me to write something based off Rosetti’s Lady Lilith, which I knew nothing of, instead imagining her as a petulant debutante with a string of music teachers in her wake.
I hope you enjoy this not so little historical tale.

Dahlia adored her music lessons. That precious hour of the day where she was indulged with lyricism and beauty. And the presence of a tall, broad, older gentleman whom she knew her father had chosen precisely because he was almost as old as her grandfather and could not be described by even the kindest soul as handsome.

To Dahlia he was the most exciting part of her lessons. He was the reason she was allowed in the music room, un-chaperoned, for one whole hour. She exploited every single minute.

On music days she woke early but didn’t rise from her bed until almost midday. She would lie in a blissful reverie, and explore the wonders of her own body as if the territory were new to her. Her own large breasts, which came to stiff, perfect peaks. Her own flaring hips and rounded tummy with its sweet fair hair. Fair hair which curved in a path between her legs, becoming coarser and darker until it curled outwards in a shield over her cunt which seemed preternaturally wet and wanting.

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#SoSS (The return)

I’m not a great person. I’m entirely self-centred whilst being made up of around 98% self-loathing which is very confusing if you stop to think about it. I love my blogger friends, I love the breadth and skill of their writing, but sometimes find it difficult to articulate that beyond “I like this” or just retweeting it. I am shit at comments, so I am going to try and get into the regular habit of a #SoSS post to actively show people how wonderful they are.
Anyway enough about me.

Photos
Exposing40’s Fat Bottomed Girls is a delightful shot of her glorious backside

Submiss34’s Sealed for Extra Freshness tracks the story of her Vac Bed experience (and includes some photos I took), and is included because it’s such a departure from her usual photography but no less sensually compelling.

Writing
Eye’s Being Owned really spoke to me, beautifully examining the conundrum of the submissive feminist, something a lot of us can identify with.

I had avoided Hannah’s For Breaking My Heart, Thank You because I wasn’t sure if I was ready to examine rebuilding after a breakup just yet, but as ever with my beloved Hannah, this is a joyful, tearful, cathartic reading experience if you have ever had your heart broken.

Exposing40 (again!) Created a vital call to arms with The Catastrophe of Ageing, a piece I fully intend to revisit again and again to remind me that I can plow my own furrow and be myself and be as visible or as behind the scenes in the world as I wish to be. Reading this has made me excited to be a woman, to make tracks, to create space, to do anything! (And to rewrite this paragraph where I initially had described her as spirited which is about as fucking patronising as you can get.)

And last but not least, this horrifyingly excellent #EuphOff winner from Love & Lust in London. A worthy winner that made me cringe with painful delight.

Keeping Up Appearances

Note: Whilst Gwendolyn refers to Whittaker as her uncle, they are not blood relatives. This is all part of the game to them. Both are well above legal age.

***

“Come.”

The room was stifling hot, a fire that had lain dormant all day, was now purring contentedly in the grate and the heat made the smoke curling from Whittaker’s cigar hang thickly in the air. He was facing the window, his back to her, watching the late evening lovers take the air.

“Did you have a pleasant evening?” He didn’t turn around.

Gwendolyn took off her jacket and shoes. “Quite.”
“Did he try anything?”

She laughed and made her way through his tightly-packed office to the window, whose ledge was just wide enough for her to perch on.

“He was a gentleman – he was the gentleman he was paid to be.” Here she reached forward and took the cigar from his hand. She took a long drag and when he took it off her, blew languid smoke rings into the air, kicking her feet into his thigh. He caught one and held it as he smoked, her toes contained in his fist.

“You’re drunk.” he said after a while.

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10 adventures I’m going to have after Eroticon

Eroticon is an amazing conference for sex writers and creatives of all kinds, an inclusive space to learn, network, feel inspired and express gratitude for the amazing community we have found ourselves in. This year was my first experience and certainly, hopefully, won’t be my last.
I am grateful for everyone who helped me have the best weekend possible, and here are ten things I am excited for in the future, as a direct result:

A dinosaur photography adventure with Exposing40

A transgressive writing adventure after Remittance Girl’s Taboo talk

A sleepover adventure to visit Molly & Signs

A slippery adventure with my box of slube and my GOTN mug

A lunch adventure with Missy

A photography adventure using the tips from Molly’s talk

A Smuthathon adventure masterminded by Amy

A science is fun, not using them for sex adventure with Hex condoms

A Bank Holiday adventure with my bathroom comrades

A loving, caring and listening adventure with myself