I treated myself to a new weekend bag for some upcoming trips I’ve scheduled to break up my sadnesses a little. And so I got to thinking about what I should bring on my excursion to London. I may have overpacked.
In the last week, whilst I have been trying to increase/streamline/provide evidence of my web presence as a writer, I started worrying. Yes, the book we do not speak of has made erotica – and specifically BDSM flavoured erotica – more culturally acceptable as a genre, up to a point. We read these books in public and no one bats an eyelid, even though most of them know someone is getting something eye-smartingly painful done to them within those pages at any given time. And yet, when I link my extracts of works in progress, I feel resistance within myself. For this is dirty work, in anyone’s language. This is wet and sticky and I am very proud of my words, but there is still that kernel of doubt that I am going too far.
On Sunday morning, I am wrapped around you like a blanket, drawing a smiley face in your chest hair.
“I’m hungry.” I say. It’s 10am, at 9.30am I was spread-eagled on the sheet, your face nestled between my thighs with my fingers knotted in your hair.
“Hmmmm. I’m hungry too.”
“I ate the last of the bacon yesterday.” At 9.45am I was riding you, the mains-powered wand grinding my clit and you were using me in my favourite way as I came for a second time and you flooded my cunt.
“Hmmmm.” I frowned. “So, you’ll go and get the bacon?”
He laughed and held me tighter. “Yes, kitten – I will go and buy some bacon.”
“Good.” but as he tried to pull away and sit upright I threw my legs over his.
“But you stay here where it’s warm.”
“Ok…..” He lay back down. I bit into the flesh of his bicep.
“But where’s the bacon?”
“In the shop.”
“Ok you go and get the bacon. But also stay here.”
“Where’s the bacon?”
There was a pause.
“In the shop.”
“Ok. You go and get the bacon but also stay here where it’s warm and I can cuddle you. Ok?”
“Ok, I’ll stay here but also get out of bed and go to the shop where the bacon is and you can stay here and keep the bed warm for me and then I will come back and cook the bacon and get back into bed for the cuddles to continue. Ok?”
“But….You stay here?”
“How much do you want a bacon sandwich?”
In his defence, it was a very good bacon sandwich.
It feels disingenuous to write an end of year post highlighting the authors and creators I have enjoyed this year – as when those people have become friends, confidantes and so much more over the past 12 months, it looks cliquey and insular.
But the majority of these friendships were borne through our writing – mutual interests and taste similarities. Looking at one whose work emulates everything you wish to be, or writes about engagements that had never crossed your mind, or even actively repulsed you until you took the time to read about the subject and suddenly your horizons were widened and the world looked like a much different, slightly more magical place.
So I am unashamedly a fan of the work of so many people I think I am allowed to call my friends – some of whom I am certainly afraid to ask for confirmation in case they look at me askance – which has largely facilitated our friendships/’friendships’.
Anyway, here is my year roundup, faves, whatevers:
My body in winter is so much more than the sum of its summer parts.
In winter, the exposure of my body is not a necessity. It is a desire. An aching, disturbing need.
All summer long we remove layers like so many sheaves of paper from an untidy stack, relishing each moment of cool reprieve before the endless swirling heat of even the most British summers returns. I loathe it. The constant film of sweat on skin, seeping into my hair and clothes and making me wretched.
Winter is the shivering pleasure I cannot wait for.
On misty workday mornings, I glance down at myself approvingly. My coat is thick and a scarf is wound about my neck, but here, between the coiling wool and the shiny brass buttons, is a thick wedge of my own chubby décolletage, a display of sensual flesh for any casual observer to enjoy, and for me to take sinful pride in.
I wear my flimsiest bra, anticipating the moment the chill northern winds permeate the many many layers of clothes I am wrapped in, and my nipples stand to attention, desperate for visibility.
I enjoy the feel of them, their painful stiffness when the temperature drops. The way their colour shifts from milky coffee to a deeper, almost reddish brown as the skin contracts and the texture shifts from soft and meek to stern and unforgiving
I lie on my winter bed, refusing to relinquish my summer sheets – revelling in my goose flesh skin, the persistent teasing lick of the icy breeze on my inner thighs and cunt.
If the summer is my tiring, consuming job of work, the winter is my lover, for whom I wait in eager, panting anticipation, and give myself to them when December arrives.
More Kink of the Week below!
Four weeks ago my world imploded as my M decided he could not continue to be with me, after some familial intrusion into our personal lives that some of you will be aware of.
Ten days later, nursing my poor, shredded heart, I wrote this letter to myself.
I have since reread it twice, and though it still makes me weep, it also calms me enough to press on.
Some minor things have been changed, names omitted (the copy I have in my file uses my real name), but other than that, it’s as it was then.
Let me tell you about my muse, unintentional fueller of my fantasies.
I do not think of him and feel my mind begin to wander to delicious places.
I do not hear his name and immediately find myself transformed, come pooling beneath me, my knickers sodden as I picture his assaults on my body.
I prostrate myself at the altar of his knowledge, of his words which cut so quickly to the sordid beauty in everything.
And he arouses my skill like no other.
Despite never having laid a finger on me.
And I cannot explain it, only know for certain that his words inspire my own and I am forever grateful that I am gifted his time, his light.
Let me tell you about my muse, her sweetness and her darkness.
I think of her in a hundred ways and every one fits comfortably, completely together.
I see her body and give thanks for it, remembering the one occasion I allowed my dormant dominant side to flourish and turned her arse a healthy pink.
I marvel at the chaste beauty of her body, at the endless, nurturing power of her love, of her freeness and ease with her world.
She makes my words burn with untold feelings;
In the year since first I touched her.
And I cannot explain it, only know for certain that her existence inspires my own, and I am forever grateful that I am gifted her time, her light.
Well, I am no longer shadowbanned! So to celebrate, I’m going to do what I was planning on anyway, a #SoSS post highlighting my favourite pieces from the past week (or a little older than that, in the case of at least one.) I hope you find something new, or someone new from this little selection!
I took the photo myself. My body looks very white in his darkened, twilight room lit only by the camera on my phone. I don’t concentrate on his handsome head nestled between my thighs, the drinking of life. I am forgetting the pleasures afforded by his tongue, today at least.
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