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.

 

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

Ahahahahaha ‘Butt’

I have a boyfriend. A lovely, kinky, dominant-in-all-the-right-ways boyfriend. He relieved me of my cumbersome virginity (More on that in subsequent posts). He eats pussy like he needs it to survive. And he likes things up his bum – tongues, fingers, implements. He’s an adventurous chap.
At first I was sceptical. He wanted to do it to me, I wasn’t comfortable with his face being that close to the bit of anatomy that makes, as we so charmingly call them “Donalds”. Or mine for that matter, but mostly his. His adoration of my arse was still something of a mystery. Well, not quite. I could absolutely understand why he liked to take his hand, paddle, or even my hairbrush to it. I was just finding it difficult to get a handle on why he wanted to bury his face in it.
He didn’t care. He wanted to do it. And I looked at him askance and carried on sucking his cock.

Some time later, we were taking a bath together (we are twee fuckers and no mistake) and the subject came up again. We were soaped up. Our bums were in the optimum state for rimming.  The run up went something like this:
‘I want to do this to you.’ he said.
‘Why?’ I said, not unreasonably.
‘Because. Because I do. I like your bum. Love it, in fact.’ he said.
‘And you like it being done to you?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ He nodded. “It feels…. amazing.” He might have been soaping my foot at the time, stroking bath bubbles up and down the pink, crinkled sole. Examining my chubby toes. I was reluctant to move from the warm cocoon of the bath and his gentle touch. But if there was a time to do it, now was absolutely that time.
I said ‘ok then’, and stood up,  slightly wobblily in the bath. Part of me just wanted to get it over and done with, but another part was astounded I’d agreed to let a man put his mouth so close to such a gross part of my anatomy, however clean it was. I tried to quieten the voices of my anxiety and germphobia.
I wanted to do it for him.
I knew he wouldn’t push the matter and would live without it if I couldn’t go through with it. I didn’t want him to. I didn’t want to deny him anything.

It was…… anticlimactic. I didn’t feel dirty, or exposed or deviant. I didn’t feel anything at all, other than a little let down by my nerve endings, and that there was little point in his doing it to me if all I got was cramp in my thigh from being bent over whilst he went to work.
‘I’m sorry.’ I said, turning back around to face him.
‘It’s ok.’ He was smiling. He’s perfect.
‘And now you….’ I grinned shyly, apprehensive again for an entirely different reason.
We swapped over, and I, very gingerly, repeated the process on him.
Oh.
The noise from him. The noise I ache to hear, that seems to flow from his chest like fire and sets contented pleasure flowing through my veins The tension that wobbled in his knees as soon as the tip of my tongue flickered gently against his skin and proved how much he wanted it.
It surprised me how swift and powerful his response was.
It was just as Belle de Jour once wrote, that “the tiniest flicker of your tongue goes further there than anywhere else.”

Well, on some people at least.
On my person for sure.

After a moment or two more – I drew away and he sat back down and reached for the shampoo. Now we knew the lay of the land, the laying on of tongues could wait for another time.

But now I could picture myself knelt behind him with my wrists crossed against my lower back, or being permitted to stroke his cock from the same position, if I’d been particularly good.

And if he’s particularly good, I might even let him do it to me again.

(The butt in question is pictured above)

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