There was nothing very special
about the tights. They were just a pair of black argyle patterned
tights that I wore with a black a-line mini skirt, a pale pink polo
neck jumper and some clumpy black boots. D looked at them quizzically
as we were leaving the house but didn’t say anything.
In the
Iranian restaurant in Paddington I’m licking hummus off my fingers and
making a doomed attempt to talk to D about the garden.
“…so I was thinking maybe a silver birch or a rowan. What do you think?”
“I think…you should tell me what knickers you’re wearing under those tights.”
“A black thong, and don’t change the subject.”
“The
subject is always what knickers you’re wearing. You’re the one who
interrupts with it with fluffy-headed female nonsense about gardening
and whether I’m staring at that girl on the train; which I absolutely
wasn’t.”
Later, as he’s paying the bill, he sends me to the
ladies to take off the thong. This is easier said than done as it also
involves, in a very tight space, taking off my coat, balancing my bag
on top of the cistern, retrieving the lipstick that falls out of my bag
and rolls behind the pedestal, unzipping my boots without putting a pig
hole in my tights, taking off my tights, taking off my thong, putting
my tights and boots back on without causing any damage, putting my coat
back on and then standing for several minutes with my cheeks pressed
against the tiles by the sink to try to calm down my flushed face.
He’s standing on the pavement outside smoking impatiently when I finally emerge and I stuff my knickers in his pocket.
Standing
at a taxi rank, I lean against the railings of a big cream stucco
house. D stands beside me, his hand slid through the vent in the back
of my coat and underneath my skirt, stroking my arse through my tights.
There are other people around, some pass close by but it’s London so
nobody notices anything.
In the taxi, I shift in my seat, the
seam that runs through the crotch of my tights digging into the folds
of my cunt. I can feel its wetness and I open the window a fraction,
worried that the scent of cunt will slowly fill the cab. D smiles
happily at me than looks away, out of the window, grinning to himself.
He’s enjoying this.
In the darkened hallway I drop my bag on the floor as he peels my coat off.
“Touch your toes.”
I
stretch, spreading my legs for balance, unsteady in my boots. He stands
behind me, watching my skirt ride up and the tights strain across my
buttocks. My hair falls over my face so I can only listen to the slow,
menacing unzip of his cock and the sudden rip as his fingers burst
through the tights and tear them open along the seam.
In an idle moment, I put my hair
up in an asymmetric pony tail. D stood behind me in the kitchen
twirling it with one hand and eating toast with the other.
“I like this. It’s a useful carrying handle.”
“Go away, I’m defrosting prawns.”
“That’s
not actually something you need to actively do, though, is it? They
defrost on their own whether you’re standing there watching them or
not.”
“You’re being tiresome now.”
“I could use it to yank your head suddenly to one side and snap your neck.”
“If you do, there won’t be prawn curry for supper.”
There
wasn’t prawn curry. There was kneeling up on a kitchen chair and sharp
hissing or air between clenched teeth and the hot sting of leather
between my thighs. There was also a short period of intense
negotiation, during which I was disadvantaged by crouching on the floor
with D’s belt around my neck. And finally there was spunk dripping from
my tongue and D’s breath on my face as his lips brushed my cheek and my
top lip.
He wound my pony tail around his fist and tugged my head to one side, lightly biting my neck.
“Are you my girl?”
I’m sad to report that the cock
ring has not been an unqualified success. I think D has taken it as a
subtle reproof and no amount of my enthusing about its design qualities
or offering to squirm around on top of it has really engaged his
enthusiasm.
He did, however, find a use for the pink bondage
tape as I discovered, in black bra and stockings rolled down to my
knees, with my knickers balled up in my mouth and the tape wound round
and round my head, covering my mouth. I could feel the damp fabric
fluttering as I took shallow breaths and looked up at him nervously.
He
knelt up on the bed between my legs, slowly stroking his cock and
rubbing the pad of his thumb over its tip, squeezing out the first
glistening drop of cum as he watched me tensely watching him, my
fingers curling and uncurling against the bedclothes as I shifted
uneasily, my breasts swelling against the edge of my bra as my ribs
rose and fell.
With one sudden, fluid motion he had lifted my
thighs, spreading my legs high and wide as he surged over me, sinking
his cock into my slit and crushing my ribs. Cupping my cheeks in his
hands, he pressed his lips hard against my ear, hissing, “Take it, you
little cunt” and he jabbed his cock with sharp, vicious stabs into my
squelching flesh.
His breathy grunts filled my ear as his body
slammed against mine and I screwed my eyes shut, my pulse throbbing
loudly in my temples until, with a bellow in my ear he pumped his spunk
into me, his cock and belly twitching as he shuddered and slumped
heavily onto me.
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling,
little sparks of light fluttering at the corners of my eyes as I felt
my pulse slow. I coughed; a small, throat-clearing cough which drew the
lace of my knickers just a little deeper into my mouth. Suddenly I was
pushing him off me, coughing harder, my face red as I clutched at the
tape. He smacked my hands away and carefully unwound it, dragging my
skin slightly as he peeled it off my cheeks and tugging it
eye-wateringly from my hair.
I sat on the edge of the bed with
my arms folded round my tummy, coughing weakly for a moment. I stood on
wobbly legs, sat down abruptly, fluttery with adrenaline, not sure what
to do. D lit a cigarette, watching me slowly come down, my face lose
its pinkness as I gradually lay down again stiffly beside him, then
eventually rolled towards him, letting him drape his arm around my
shoulders and pull me tight. He turned his face towards mine, then
lifted his head to blow a stream of smoke away from my face before
turning back to kiss my forehead and murmur, “You’re a good little
cunt.”
Another day, another sex blogger
is outed. Today it’s Brooke Magnanti, as we must now call Belle du
Jour, who turned up late last night on the Sunday Times’ website,
apparently ‘outing herself’ after a loud-mouthed ex-boyfriend went
running to them with the story.
The moral of this story is, if you’re an anonymous sex blogger, don’t tell anyone
because you can’t trust them when there’s money to be made. No, maybe
the moral is, don’t write online about your sex life? Oh, I don’t know
what the moral is. I have no morals.
A girlie day today. Lynda came
round with photos from Halloween of the pair of us dressed
approximately as cats (cue snarling at the camera while sporting velvet
headbands with cat ears) and then she dragged me all the way to Hoxton
while I kept up a constant barrage of, “But I’m cold. My umbrella’s all
floppy. I think I’ve got a poorly knee.” It was worth it though because
she took me to Sh! Which is a women-only sex shop (it’s pink).
We
both bought something called Flower Clitoral Orgasm Enhancer. This
comes in a stylish little tin and looks rather like lip balm – in fact
we tried it in the shop by rubbing it on our lips and yes, tingly
throbbing stuff happened. Lynda also bought some rhinestone handcuffs
and I bought some pink bondage tape (pink is the new black) and for D I
bought a cock ring.
When I say I bought it for D, what I really
mean is that I’m going to hand it to D but it’s a present for me. It’s
made by Lelo, which is the Swedish company who made my favourite i-pod
style vibrator. Because it’s for men it comes in manly colours. I chose
burgundy – why you can almost smell the rich mahogany, button-back
Chesterfields and cigar smoke of an exclusive gentlemen’s club. It’s
elegant, minimalist, rechargeable and contains no instructions about
which way up you wear it. Does the vibrating bit go at the top or the
bottom? Only extensive trial and error can answer this question.
In
the tea shop, while I crammed my face with coffee and walnut cake and
lemon drizzle cake because I couldn’t decide and I’m a fat pig, Lynda’s
mind wandered to the tin burning a hole in her pocket. “I’m going to
try it now” she announced and scurried off into the ladies, leaving me
spraying crumbs as I tried to answer her. There was nothing for it;
taking the remainder of the lemon drizzle cake with me, I followed her.
We
sat opposite each other on the train, sneaking sly looks at one
another, dimpling as we tried not to laugh and ostentatiously crossing
and uncrossing our legs, squirming slightly in our seats and sighing
theatrically. The pleasing warmth and tingle of blood rushing into our
clits subsided long before the journey was over, but the suppressed
hysteria kept us sufficiently wound up to break into a little run as we
neared Lynda’s flat, scrambling laughing up the stairs and flopping
onto her bed.
Lynda pinned me on my back with my hands over my
head as she wriggled her fingers underneath tights and knickers while I
struggled and moaned “No, please, I’m a virgin! They’ll make me leave
the convent if they catch us!” I was struck dumb by a sudden, sharp,
intense orgasm that left me slumped on the bed, eyes and mouth perfect
Os of surprise. “Golly!”
If you’ve been paying attention, you’ll
have spotted Lynda making a tactical error in buying rhinestone
handcuffs. It took a considerable struggle and a banged elbow (hers)
and shin (mine) before she was safely locked up. But then there was
absolutely nothing to stop me spending the rest of the afternoon
teasing, tickling, blowing on but not quite bringing to orgasm her
swollen clit, while she kicked her legs furiously and screamed and
called me several names I’m too well brought up to repeat here.
Lolling on my back, with my hands
behind my head and my knees flopping apart, I’m damp and lightly
pulsing and very happy. D’s charity-themed moustache is working out
very well for me. I’ve re-thought my decision to grow back a certain
amount of carefully-sculpted bush. For the full moustache-on-flesh
impact it has to be stripped bare.
And he’s been encouraged by
my noisy appreciativeness, kneeling on a pillow on the floor, nibbling
and licking my frilly bits, cautiously avoiding my clit because after
two orgasms in quick succession he’s liable to get a clonk on the head
if he touches it directly now.
He slides his hands under my bum
and pulls me sharply towards him, plunging his tongue right into my
cunt and lapping, the bridge of his nose pressed hard against the
underside of my clit. Now, I have the option here of grabbing fistfuls
of his hair and jerking his head away because I did tell him I needed a
little rest. But I’m an indulgent girlfriend. I lift my legs into the
air, holding my thighs apart and groan, shuddering as prickly moustache
brushes my clit and D clamps his lips firmly around my clit and sucks.
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'.