Rubicon

That strange taste haunted her throughout the

long school day, despite her initial

revulsion—just a hint behind the

toothpaste and breakfast, the shivery

ghost of an experience she knew had

carried her across a deep invisible

Rubicon into a strange land open to

conquest:  the land of Men, in which

bizarrely the young woman on her knees could

exercise such unexpected power.

Signal Problems at Balham

A seat was suddenly vacated on the

crowded Tube and she plopped onto it and

winced then blushed as she looked to see if

anyone had noticed, perhaps guessed how

bruised her bottom was and what

pleasure she had gained from the pain, how

open it had made her, how

totally available.

The train grunted to a halt and a bored

London-Caribbean voice crackled that there was a

signal problem at Balham and the

carriage sighed as one, except her

remembering how she had given the

green light for her bum to be

beaten black and blue and had ended up

tickled pink.

Inside Her

She wondered what happened to all those seeds: the

nutty tomato sucked from her teeth, the

strange polyps of peppers, all that

cucumber slough, inert and passing through wanting

not her but her soil to propagate, unlike the

purposeful spermatozoa currently

surfing her peristaltic wave into the

acidic roil of her stomach seeking

non-existent eggs and perhaps

passing other men’s seeds as they are all

swept into her dark bowels where, lo, they meet

more blind swimmers struggling

upwards against the flow and

all going “WTF?” and she

couldn’t help it but burst out laughing on the

crowded train.

Task 1

They’d been chatting for weeks while her

husband slept and she felt sure that

He was the one to give her the

discipline she felt she lacked at home, his

words so articulate, encouraging and

arousing that she went to bed and

woke wet, so when he spoke of

tasks he would set her she said

yes and meant it though her

heart refused to stay still.

On the bus back her thoughts were

jumbled by the stomach-twisting truth of

what she’d done, the excitement

jostling with her shame, the heat of the

club, the half-remembered language of

unspoken lust, the forgotten easiness of it all as she

held all the cards and men just wanted them

dealt, the dirty dancing, the

tug on the wrist, acquiescence, the

chill of the carpark, gravel biting knees.

She waved her children farewell as they

whooped into school, then finished her text:

“Task 1 completed, Sir” and

thumbed through the photographic proof for the

best shot of a stranger’s cock in her mouth, the

best shot of his sperm

decorating her face as she looked like a

chick demanding food, and the

December gloom looked different as she

breathed deeply and pressed “Send”.

First Monday

The first Monday of every month, after

dropping her husband at the station, her

children at school, she went to the house where a

costume and a mask were waiting and a

camera’s naked eye to capture her having

sex with strangers whilst she

wondered whether her husband who

now never touched her

wanked over her

anonymously available image.

A Flood

He knew from her rhythm as she rode him that

any moment now her floodgates would open and his

groin would be overwhelmed by the

tsunami of her sex.