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.”
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.
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.”
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'.
I'm packing, which I enjoy
immensely since the introduction of regulations relating to the
carriage of liquids. There's something about decanting liquids into
special less-than-100ml bottles and lining them up in a zip-lock bag no
larger than 1 litre capacity that makes me happy in a dolls house kind
of way. I have a travel kettle, a collapsible umbrella and a secret
stash of tea bags. Why yes, I am English, how could you tell?
No time for blogging tonight. Instead, here are some fruit bats.
I imagine the man sitting next to me on the aeroplane wasn’t actually
William Shatner, but his eerie resemblance to him put me in mind of
that episode of the Twilight Zone where he sees gremlins on the wing of
his aeroplane and ends up being carted away in a straitjacket – you
know the one. I had a quick look out of the window just to check for
gremlins but only noticed that the tips of the wings were curiously
pointing up. I’ve never seen this before; is it aerodynamic or were
they just pleased to see me?
I’ve been taking advantage of some
odd days when work doesn’t need me and I’ve been on a flying visit to
see my dad in France and on Saturday D and I are off to Venice. I took
history books with me to France but I don’t think I’ll bother taking
them to Venice. I just got back to about the worst mark I’ve ever got
for anything, ever. And I worked hard on that. Plus, I’ve got no idea
from my tutor’s comments exactly what it is I did wrong, I think he’s
been on a feedback course because his comments are vaguely encouraging
to the point of meaninglessness, which is no help when they’re sitting
next to a big fat 60%.
Maybe…and this is a radical idea but
stick with me…maybe, if I didn’t have a job and two holidays and a blog
and a cocktail of mood altering prescription drugs and a boyfriend
who’s leaving the country and a very demanding cat…then I might be able
to edge my score up to the giddy heights of, say 62%?
Oh for fuck’s sake, I’ve never scored lower than 83%, and I was furious about that; 60% is virtually retarded.
D’s
hiding downstairs watching football, which he hates, so I must be
crosser even than I realise. I think I’m going to feign sleep to
persuade him it’s safe to come to bed.
Off to see the Franz Ferdinand
late show in Brixton tonight so no time to tell you anything about D’s
car breaking down on the M4 and me having to drive to Heston Services
to rescue him. I arrived so late and we were both so tired that our
grand ‘back together after a week’ dinner was at Burger King and then
we booked into the Travelodge.
Still, the one thing you can say
about Travelodge is that its bland anonymity lends itself nicely to
really filthy, pornographic sex. D overcame his tiredness sufficiently
to fuck me from behind with his left knee on the bed and his right foot
planted on my cheek, pressing my face into the bedclothes. I wriggled
furiously as his cock slammed at an angle into my cunt and he whacked
my arse hard with the flat of his hand, hissing “Stop wriggling!” which
of course made me wriggle more.
Finally he clambered off me,
and I lifted my head blearily to look back at him. He stood, a couple
of paces away from the bed, stroking his cock slowly with one hand.
Then he clicked the fingers of his other hand and pointed at the floor.
“Bad dog! You know you’re not allowed on the bed.”
Stretching my
stiff limbs, I climbed down onto the floor, crawling slowly towards
him, craning my neck and stretching my tongue out to flutter against
the tip of his cock. Just as I was about to curl my tongue around the
underside of its head and coax it into my mouth, he stepped back. This
is an old game. I looked up at him and the corners of my mouth twitched
into a smirk. He looked stonily back at me and whispered, “Crawl.”
I
crawled, bobbing my head down to lap slowly along the underside of his
shaft and then press my lips firmly against the head of his cock…
He
took another step back and I crawled towards him again and spat on the
end of his cock, slowly swirling it round and then sucking its head
firmly into my mouth…
He took another step back, his back
against the wall now and I crawled towards him, kneeling up, gripping
his thighs and plunging my mouth onto his cock, rubbing its head
against my bulging cheek…
“Look at me,” he whispered, and I gazed up as he twined my hair around his fingers. “Don’t swallow.”
His
spunk pooled in my mouth, I tipped my head back and opened wide to show
him. He murmured, “Good girl” and slithered down the wall, sitting on
the floor with his back to it as I ground my lips urgently against his,
letting his cum ooze from my tongue to his and feeling the tiredness in
his body as it grew heavy in my arms.
As a very special
reward, we didn’t have to go back to Burger King for breakfast and I
was allowed to finish all of my Costa Coffee Blackcurrant and White
Chocolate Muffin without him even attempting to steal any. I know this
may not sound like much, but it represents a breakthrough in respect
for my personal food space. Plus, he’s bought me a key ring that says I ‘heart’ Heston, so don’t let anyone tell you romance is dead.
Today’s study avoidance technique has been signing D up for Movember.
This is a charity event that takes place in November when men are
sponsored to grow moustaches for Prostate Cancer. And obviously this is
a good thing in itself and not just an excuse to see what he’d look
like with a Zapata moustache (though I have simulated the effect with
felt tip on a photo of him and stuck it to the fridge).
I’ve
started my new job in the evenings and it doesn’t seem very taxing so
far, just basic administrative stuff in a big empty office with a view
of the Barbican by night. Some of the cover I do will be in the daytime
and I expect that’s when most of the real work happens. On my way back
to Old Street I freaked myself out a bit when I was followed by a man
jingling keys in his pocket. I’m not sure why that was as I’m normally
a confident ‘walking around at night on my own’ sort of gal. I had to
stop suddenly and pretend to be examining something in the middle
distance to let him walk past me. Then I convinced myself he was
deliberately slowing down so I would catch him up. Poor man, I expect
he hadn’t even noticed me.
I’ve got a mysterious text message
today. It reads, ‘hi sweetie, u up 4 jetlag @ 9 xxx’ This is puzzling
in many ways. I think it’s probably a wrong number and after staring at
it for a long time I’ve decided ‘jetlag’ must be a club or bar. I’m
very tempted to accept but I can’t tell if the text is from a man or a
woman.
Oh, I’ve just Googled ‘jetlag’ and it seems to be a
fairly wanky-looking Japanese sports bar, so perhaps not. Unless of
course the Japanese sport in question is five-a-side bukkake, in which
case I’m missing out big time.
As promised, here are the answers to the survey questions. Why not play this game yourselves at home?
Do I have a problem with sex addiction?
Why not read through the statements below to see if any of them relate to you?
1. Have you ever tried to control or cut down the amount of sex you have?
Only really when D becomes possessed with overwhelming boredom and
starts trying to put his hand up my skirt in the middle of a BBC
adaptation of a Jane Austen novel which I’m actually trying to watch, thank you very much!
2. Have you ever had sex with someone you didn't want to have sex with?
They all seem like a good idea to begin with but I have occasionally
lost interest part-way through and only continued out of politeness.
3. Do you need a sexual relationship to make your life bearable?
No, but just making my life bearable seems like a lowly ambition. I was
hoping to make my life unpredictable and flamboyant and the subject of
a number of conflicting biographies following my death (or
disappearance in mysterious circumstances).
4. Do you become anxious or even desperate when you are away from your partner?
Only if we’re in a crowded place and I’ve mislaid him, when I instantly
revert to ‘four year old lost in a department store’. I do become
curious about what he’s up to in weeks like this one when he’s away and
that’s sometimes vaguely unsettling.
5. Do you engage in sexual practices that bring you discomfort or pain? If you’ve been reading the blog I think you already know the answer to that one.
6. Do you feel that life would be meaningless without a sexual relationship?
In a ‘biological imperative’ sort of way, yes of course it would. I
sense the hovering threat of a twelve-step programme behind this
question. One of the steps of twelve-step always seems to be God. Oh,
they don’t call him that, they call him ‘a spiritual dimension’ or ‘a
higher power’ but they mean God. Why should I assume I’m entitled to a
meaningful life? That’s the sort of egocentric twaddle religions
peddle. There’s no evidence that anyone’s life is meaningful other than
for biological reasons. Life is random and I’m unimportant and those
are not bad things.
7. Do you spend a lot of time thinking about sex?
Other than the time I spend having it, scheming to have it, dealing
with the repercussions of it, writing about it and buying unsuitably
high-heeled shoes, why no, it hardly crosses my mind.
8. Do you feel uncomfortable about masturbation?
I used to a little bit when I still lived at home and had a picture of
the Sacred Heart of Jesus on the bedroom wall watching me do it. He’s
not watching any more though, so it’s OK.
9. Have ever had an important relationship ruined through affairs etc? Not ruined, but I’ve dented it a couple of times.
10. Are you unable to concentrate on other aspects of your life because of thoughts of sex?
Isn’t this true of everyone? If you’ve, say, dismantled your food mixer
in the spirit of enquiry and then attempted to re-assemble it before
anyone notices using only the line drawings in the instructions leaflet
as a guide (and I’m not suggesting anyone here has done that, it’s a
totally random example, right?) then you’ll know that this is a task
that is significantly impaired by daytime fantasies of being tied to
the kitchen table with clothes line by burglars and brutally assaulted
with the contents of the veg box.
11. Do you feel that you lack dignity and completeness?
Completeness? Is that like wholeness and oneness? Is it something to do
with positive thinking and healing energy? My only lack of dignity
comes from having to live in a world where people bang on about
nonsense like completeness.
12. Would your quality of life improve if you were not so driven by sex and romance?
Where did romance suddenly come from in a survey about sex addiction?
Isn’t that like saying, “the trouble with alcoholics is that they’re
driven by an excessive devotion to the intricacies of the distilling
process”?
In summary, sex addicts cause distress to themselves
and their loved ones by being self-centred and mercenary. They can
overcome this by spending a lot of time thinking about themselves and
what they could be getting out of life if they weren’t sex addicts. Did
I miss out any irony here?
Odd day yesterday; I went
Japanese speed-dating. Not, you understand, in my own capacity but as
my friend Itsuko’s speed-dating buddy. Not quite everyone there was
Japanese but enough of them were for me to have bumped my head twice
doing the ‘bowing-on-greeting’ thing.
I have no small talk so
I found it all quite hard work. I also find it very difficult to answer
questions like ‘what are you like’. At first I wrote ‘lazy,
unprincipled and impatient’ which is true but not much of an opening
gambit, so I had to throw that form away and start again.
Each
‘meet’ lasted ten minutes and then a bell was rung and we all swapped
round. Ten minutes can be a long time. I threw my list of matches away
at the end but Itsuko submitted two names she’d like to swap details
with and got an email later in the day confirming that they wanted her
details too.
Back home, Itsuko got very stern with me about my
hot tub. Apparently I’m doing it all wrong; it’s not polite to just
strip off in the garden and jump in quickly before the neighbours see.
In Japan, I’d have to sit on a stool and soap and scrub my hair and
body first, then rinse it all off and only then get into the tub (and
then only in order of family seniority). I tried to distract her by
going, “But look, it has coloured lighting…” but she insisted on
getting all Japanese on my ass.
In other news, I’ve had an
email from another friend with the following questionnaire. If I can
tear myself away from thinking about sex for five minutes I might
answer it next time.
Do I have a problem with sex addiction?
Why not read through the statements below to see if any of them relate to you?
1.Have you ever tried to control or cut down the amount of sex you have?
2. Have you ever had sex with someone you didn't want to have sex with?
3. Do you need a sexual relationship to make your life bearable?
4. Do you become anxious or even desperate when you are away from your partner?
5. Do you engage in sexual practices that bring you discomfort or pain?
6. Do you feel that life would be meaningless without a sexual relationship?
7. Do you spend a lot of time thinking about sex?
8. Do you feel uncomfortable about masturbation?
9. Have ever had an important relationship ruined through affairs etc?
10. Are you unable to concentrate on other aspects of your life because of thoughts of sex?
11. Do you feel that you lack dignity and completeness?
12. Would your quality of life improve if you were not so driven by sex and romance?