Madonnas by Firelight

The warm Spring made us think of camping and the

boys built a big fire to keep

Spring’s heat alive into the night when some

berk with a Blackberry found it was

Beltane when it behoved us to dance

naked round the flames and we hooted and

laughed and shouted “NO!” but the

bottled beers and the craik

cracked our shells and clothes were shed with

whoops of embarrassed excitement and we

danced naked in the firelight, even

podgy Judy looked amazing with her

tits flying, our hair

whipping round our faces and the

sparks from the fire shooting up as our

boys revealed mens’ erections and

Spring ended up properly fertilised.

A Tale of Two Parties

A.

Only a sliver of moonlight aided her

tiptoe search amidst the

wreckage of the party, past an

outstretched leg, a bra (sadly

not hers), cold pizza, empty

cans and no sign of the

friend she had lost.

B.

Unwillingly she’d gone but it seemed quite

chic and staid and unexceptional

until, looking for the loo, she’d heard the

grunts and moans and an

open door and a woman with

two men whilst

another watched.

A.

All she could think of was the

bollocking Becky would have if she didn’t

get her home, but at least she found her

crumpled dress and her

too-high shoes, and then she heard

Becky’s voice—but a Becky she’d

never heard before.

B.

She was as transfixed as the woman

impaled on one cock, sucking another, the third

oiling himself to join the mix and as he

fixed his mortar against her tight pestle the

woman’s eyes shot open,

straight into hers with a look that went

directly to her pussy.

A.

Becky was barely visible in the

scrum of bodies in the skanky bedroom but

she recognised the polish on her

tightly-clenched toes and the

hank of red hair held by the man

vigorously fucking her face from which grunts came that

amounted to Becky’s voice.

B.

The airtight woman kept her eyes on her,

eyes that made her wet so that when her

husband suddenly pressed his

erection against her ass and whispered “She looks

beautiful, doesn’t she?” she knew it was going to be a

long night and his wasn’t the

only cock she’d have.

A.

The hand with the hank of hair

yanked harder as he came but

Becky took it all and when she could speak

muttered “more”, then saw her and

“her next” before another cock

semi-silenced her and a hand reached out which she

didn’t refuse.

B.

She dozed through the dawn drive home, her

body sore and leaking and the

unfamiliar taste of pussy in her

bruised mouth and the knowledge that

nothing would ever be the same

swimming like the semen in her

happy stomach.

A.

The first bus back broke the dawn and

Becky burped a sperm-scented belch as she

slept on her shoulder and she knew that

nothing would ever be the same as she

remembered Becky’s sopping vulva

descending on her face with an

unexpected pleasure, like a

bolt of lightning out of a

clear dawn sky.

Events in the next room

The little black dress still looked chic

carelessly dropped on the floor with the

black thong and the

stilettos he thought she’d keep on but

maybe the finer points of erotica were

lost in her lust so he put down the

ice-bucket he’d been

purposelessly sent for and

picked up the camera just as his

wife moaned “Oh fuck yes...” in the

next room.

Books and Covers

She had a plummy voice and

Bovey Tracey manners, a

laugh you could hear in Highgate,

appeared in Harpers and

Tatler and looked as if she’d be

happiest with horses or

hunt balls burdened by beaus and

butter wouldn’t melt, etc., but

in truth she was the finest

fuck in Fitzrovia, liked it

rough and hard and talked so

dirty in that Oxford voice that she kept me

hard for hours as other men and

women joined us and her

knees got dirty in the

alley behind Annabel’s.

Whatever

The blindfold, the ropes, the

bar spreading your legs, the

hard surface across which you are

bent, your

helplessness—all give you the

freedom to just

let go and accept

whatever, whoever, whenever.

For T

Saved by the Belt

Each stroke was another red stitch in the

poem of love embroidered on the

bare bottom of the brat and

bitch she knew she’d been before, the

boys and men she’d teased and

titillated and then left hanging, until

that night when this man

upended her over his knees,

quelled her effortlessly, her

knickers around her ankles, spanked as she

blubbed, squirmed, felt

humiliated, came hugely on his fingers, heard herself

beg and the door slam, the week he

waited until he summoned her, the

door opening and the belt in his hand that would

save her.