Twenty-First Century

When she unwrapped the iPad he

winked at her and

muttered something about joining the

modern world, which to her was a

sexless marriage, three

rapacious screenagers who only left their rooms to

rape the fridge and mountain the sink with

washing-up, but she gave it a go,

learnt to surf, discovered

Facebook and Twitter, made friends, read

blogs and through them

Lit and tumblr and flickr,

clicked links she knew she shouldn’t,

started an anonymous email, made

new “friends”, one of whom,

now that the house was empty, was

waiting for her new Skype name to

connect, for her to be suitably

undressed, to show her ability to take

direction in the use of those

interesting objects the postman had

unwittingly delivered, a performance she would

record to show her husband that his wife had

well and truly arrived in the

Twenty-First Century.

No-Tell Hotel

She was so grateful for the nearby

No-Tell Hotel, where the sight of

one woman and several men (only one of whom

seemingly married to her) caused no

comment: where a large room,

well-separated from others was

always available; where there was

no complaint about her serious screaming nor the

foul language of full-on sex; where there was always

extra towels to dry so many

sweaty bodies; where no-one objected to the

heavily soiled sheets or the

feral smell of so much

gloriously impersonal pleasure.

As she drank her coffee, sated,

watching her children scamper, she

vowed to reward the staff, somehow, and

funnily enough she knew the perfect place.

Christmas Stocking

Her Christmas Stocking was

black, a fine denier,

tight-gartered, sleek, not suited to a

man’s ill-wrapped gift but

perfectly encasing  the

warm leg that led to the

best Christmas present

any man could wish for.

Keys

As the car took a sharp bend, the

keys caught her eye as they

swung in the street-light:

was the miniature Eiffel Tower

deliberately phallic or just an

amusing souvenir?

And that long Chubb looked serious:

was there a dungeon chez lui where his

wife liked to be stretched?

Would he want a bit of rough, this

man she barely knew? Would she

hurt in the morning? Would she mind?

She thought of that silly rabbit’s foot she’d

bought for her husband, wondered

whose wife was looking at that

swinging in another street-light, whether she

would think him weird: and where was

this man’s wife? In a

BMW, a Ford, a Peugeot?

Clean? Or cluttered, with

“Baby on Board” in the rear-window?

His cool hand crept up her

warm thigh to where there was

space for cold flesh, opening naturally,  

all beginning with a bowl, a

blindfold, a chaos of keys, a

story to tell in the morning.

A Valediction, Forbidding Morning

Let not this moist cavern of tangled limbs and

sweat and the sense of sex ever

evaporate but distil its latent power to

banish break of day so that

night and silence can reign in the

banked heat of skin on skin.

Mismatch

He wanted to climb the ladder in her stocking but

had no head for heights; he wanted to

tie her up but was all thumbs; he put

heart and soul into spanking her but

hurt his wrist, so he tried his belt

but it broke; words like

“bitch” and “cunt” didn’t come

naturally to him and neither

tongue nor penis felt

long enough for the job at hand.

Meanwhile, she endured the

spankings, the swear words, the

broken belt, the more than

adequate organs of pleasure but

just wanted to be loved, to be

kissed and kissed and

kissed again and kissed

again.

An Oxford Whore

In my gown and mortar-board--the ones I’d

worn to receive my PhD--very high heels and

nothing else, I bent over to show

tonight’s patron the part of me

without brains as this one was an

arse-bandit for whom I was

well-prepared and there was a

particular problem in astrophysics I could

ponder until he was ensconced and I could

enjoy, though it amused me that

while I saw the stars he

plundered where there was no sun.

There was not much call for

cosmologists in the current climate and the

conundra of the current account

foxed even my mathematical mates now

counting chips at McDonald’s, so

why not sell my body whilst it was

still mine to sell?

Logic is much misunderstood and the

logic of prostitution more so but

do we need the dismal science to

elucidate the obvious?

Men will pay when women provide and

Oxford is full of clever, desperate men:

my mind is still mine, galaxies still

spin across it, and besides,

someone has to make the

spires dream and

stay erect.

Hallowe'en (Strip)Tease

Who was this Athene with attitude, this

unstartled Diana stripping sensually in my

small flat, this Gilda prepared to shed

rather more than a glove?

Who was she who caught my eye at the

crowded bar, spoke first when I couldn’t

imagine what to say, and got

straight to the point?

Who was she who bared her small

sharp breasts, her sharp hips, her

lack of underwear, with the

shake of a snake?

Who was she whose hot mouth

clamped itself to mine, whose

cool hand stroked my sex to an

unbearable hardness?

Who was she who made my bed a

maelstrom, folded like origami,

had the strength of an

Amazon in her tiny torso?

Who was she who was gone when I

awoke, her smell all over me, her

dress where she’d dropped it and her

impossible heels askew?

Purse

Toasty in her narrow bed, her
fingers sticky, and surrounded by the
sybaritic scents of her almost
permanent arousal, she
pondered how she could get him to
spend the contents of his
proud purse on her and
her alone.

"Click-Clack" (Captain Beefheart)

She could hear the unhurried

click-clack of his heels, good

leather on polished wood, pausing

now and then—to

admire the view? The city

resplendent in autumn light? Or her—

naked, blindfolded and

restrained across a coffee table?

Who could see her on this fine

busy mid-day? She

knew the blinds were open as she could

feel the sun heating her bare flesh,

knew well that clink-

slick-slick-slick of his

belt being removed,

knew she was about to be

beaten, abused and fucked (she

knew no nicer way of

putting it) however he pleased

before an audience of gawping

lunchtime strangers, but she

didn’t know why she found this so

unbearably exciting.

Doggerland I

While lost one night we stumbled into

Doggerland, that nocturnal world of

exhibition and stranger-sex and my

instinct was to reverse but you said “No,

wait!” so we watched the

courtesy lights wink on and off, the

men flitting like moths to

someone else’s flame where

now and then a woman would

emerge from her cocoon to

kneel or bend or bow before some

barely exposed tumescence, and

one by one the men falling away,

burnt or empty, as more arrived—one

so close I felt your eyes on his

phallus, smelt your pheromones, saw your

left hand disappear beneath your

dress, your right reach towards the

light that would lead us into the

night of Doggerland.

The Moment

The man made his move the moment her

husband went to the john and she

had to admire his cheek as he

blatantly hit on her as she

smiled and nodded and

said little while waiting for her

husband to return and stop it but

five minutes became ten and the guy’s

knee was rubbing her thigh when she realised

he wasn’t coming back, was

watching somewhere in the crowded bar,

wanted this thing he’d often

whispered in her ear, was

imagining everything from this guy’s

hand first touching her bare leg to that last

cum-scented kiss she would give him as she

eased him from their house

into the cold pre-dawn

hoping no one could see her

sore, stained, naked body, and for the

first time she really looked at the guy,

found herself attracted and thought

well, why not?

Hello and Goodbye

(For SDG, with respect and apologies)


It was hello and goodbye with a
fuck in between, but each time
taught her something of
herself or a man: whether
size or staying-power outdid an
ingenious tongue; if lust or
laughter mattered more; that
erectile failure wasn't her fault; that
nevertheless her mouth could
breathe life into dead things; that the
dark side of sex delighted her; that
more, harder, deeper, faster was her
Olympic oath; that the man who
took her gave her more than he who
borrowed her body then gave it back,
unsullied but unsatisfied.

Olympic Glory

In the crowded Tube carriage she
swayed on her slut-silly heels, her mouth
tight-closed savouring the
gummy thickness in her throat, the
salt-and-swimming-pool flavour, the
slight stickiness of her cleavage where
some slipped out as she knelt in that
skanky cubicle lit by perpetual porn
before the silver-taped hole where she was an
Olympic performer, a gold-medallist at her
chosen discipline, coached by the
man against whom she leant, their
hands and rings entwined.

A Lady's Miscellany

Atop my head, sir, is my hair

worn loose or coiffed to suit the

time of day or the company I keep

--luxurious, is it not? And it will

take a tug or two should

passion demand it.

My eyes, sir, are for seeing and for

telling an intuitive soul what

roils within my otherwise

hidden heart—they are green,

are they not? and they are not averse to perusing a

handsome form and all its attributes.

My mouth, sir, is for eating and drinking and

smiling (for you do not want to see the

purse of my unhappy lips, tighter than

any Exchequer) –are those lips

red, sir? and plump and unafraid to be

dyed white by a man’s exuberance.

These arms, sir, can carry and clasp and

these hands—are they not delicate and

unadorned?—can caress, make the

soft hard and hard

soft again. Are they not

extraordinary hands, sir?

These, sir, are my breasts: they

feed children and, when not tender,

enjoy the attention of those who

please to play the child’s role

--bounteous, are they not? and

bounty should be shared.

Behind this well-wooded copse, sir, is

my vagina, from which by nature’s whimsy

men go in and babies come out

--luxuriant, is it not? When it purrs it

answers to puss but harsher names have

sometimes not displeased.

A neglected path, sir, meanders to

my anus, designed to void my waste but,

as all you well-brought-up young men seem to know,

curiously amenable to insertion

--is it not dark and comely when I

bend for you like this?

These sites of interest, sir, sit upon legs of

surprising strength for one

so slender, ending in feet capable of

spurring the most sturdy of steeds to

superhuman speed, when speed

spurs spending.

Is my miscellany a pleasure, sir, or too

complicated to comprehend? Is it just my

sturdy thighs you wish to ride? Or

can you find your way into the

sturdy heart that makes all these parts,

all these interwoven parts,

work as one?

Pretend

She ushered the Tinies to their
waiting parents, some of whom asked about her
weekend in Paris and she gushed about the
food and the sights but didn't mention the
Ivorian couple her husband had
found on the Net, how
dark their skin was against their
English pallor, how hot and wet and
spicy the woman's pussy was, how
thick and hard the man, how it felt amidst that
kaleidoscope of black and white, how
extraordinary it was to kiss her
sperm-scented mouth while
full of both husbands...

No, she kept those images to herself as she
waved them all off to rest before
another day of make-believe and
pretend.

Honestly, Ron.....

Honestly Ron, the trouble I went to! That
outfit you bought me? It made me look like a
two-bit whore and it took a fricken
HOUR to work out all the straps! Then,
despite being the main attraction, I had to
prepare all the snacks and drinks while you
farted around with the camera and the
lights (Jeez, wasn't it hot enough?), and
six guys show up! You said three! OK, so
one high-tailed it pronto, but that still left
five horny guys on
poor little me--have you any idea how
sore I am? OK, so I came like the
train I pulled but pardon me if I
walk funny for a week.....
And then we sit down to watch my
movie debut and your voice is
certainly loud and clear, directing the
poor sons-of-bitches, but sadly the pictures are
NOT IN FOCUS!!!!

Honestly, Ron......

Marks

Let me mark you as your
clothes mark you: as your
corset cinches your waist, your
bra cups and cuts in; your
stockings weal your thighs, your
knickers your hips; as your
ear-rings nip your lobes, your
collar chafes your throat--let me
mark you and watch as the
marks slowly fade, then let me
mark you again.

Mêlée

Amidst the mêlée of bodies on the bed

he could make out only a

hank of reddish hair

wrapped around a pumping fist, a

well-pedicured foot waving rhythmically

and an equally well-manicured hand

desperately clutching a

bull neck.

He tried to concentrate on filming—

focus, aperture (why are

dark bodies so difficult to light?)—

wondered if the guy underneath could

breathe, whether she could breathe with the

constricted moans coming from her

blocked throat—the increasingly

funky smell of sweat and arousal—but

his eye kept returning to those

sharp red nails on the

clenching hand, on one finger of which

glinted the ring he’d given her.

Host

He knew of her yen when he married her,
nurtured it through the struggling years and then
let it loose, much to her surprise that he'd
spied on her all those years ago on her knees
behind the school, worshipping what she loved,
getting what she desired and now
getting it again with his loving help, though
he had to stop accompanying her to church because
as she knelt to accept the host
all he could see was the
hosts of men who had dyed those
pale pink lips with their
opalescent white.

Curtsey

I let my hands rest gently on your
slender shoulders and watch the
whirligig of emotions flicker across
your retinas as you understand
where this will lead and how it will
end and you don't so much
fall to your knees as curtsey
knowing now exactly what to do.

Belt

His heaviest belt hung from a
hook in the hallway so she
always saw it, hadn't yet
earned it, wondered what it might
feel like, applied with passion to the
tender upholstery of her behind,
if her wince/sigh/smile would go
unnoticed at the next
board meeting.

Your Startled Eye

My eyes were closed, my mouth
tight-stopped to yours, our tongues
langourously interleaving as your
soft body rode mine, when a
weight stilled you and you
rose slightly, so we were
eye to startled eye as a
cylinder of flesh similar to mine
broached your back passage, and you
sobbed something sinful as he
slid home snugly
alongside me.

The Woods

He drove her back to the woods and
they were wordless as they walked, her
heart pounding when they found the
tree he had once tied her to, naked and
blindfold, and left her in that
raucous silence for whatever,
whoever, came by.

A Royal Portrait

                                                      Suffocating in splendour
                                                      she wanted to
                                                      rip the heavy brocade from her bosom,
                                                      bare her sweating breasts to the
                                                      naked air, feel the
                                                      prickle of evaporation from her
                                                      prinking nipples and assuage
                                                      perhaps the painter's
                                                      painful problem.

Blink

She was such a good girl
normally, but sometimes the
shape of a bum, the
pack of a groin, the
bounty of a bosom, the
promise of a mouth would take her from
lustful sigh to the
drip down her thigh in the
blink of an eye.

How Much?

The first time she heard "How much?" she was
mortified and angry and ashamed and
afterwards aroused.
That first "How much?" got a
goldfish stare, the second a
"Fuck Off!" but the third got an
awkward blowjob in the carpark for the
price of the bottle of champagne she
gave her girlfriends.
Numbers four and five got a slap but
number six gave her a shag that
shook her and a wad of cash she
saved in a special account that
grew from time to time and
held out hope of escape, but now
Number Whatever wanted "full service" and
had a nearby place which she
suspected meant things she'd
never yet experienced, and she'd only
wanted to escape a loveless marriage and an
occupied but silent house and she
wondered how it had
come to this as she
went.

Wrong and Right

Wrong Way

The war over me started as soon as we were
naked with the other guy
aggressive and fucking me so hard I
gagged on Hubby's cock and he was
slapping my ass and calling me a
slut, which might have worked if we'd been
alone but my husband's
waning erection told me that the
night wasn't right and though I'd
wanted to show the guy a
night to remember instead I
showed him the door.

Right Way

There often comes a moment when his
insistent thrusts take away your
powers of concentration and your
mouth drops my member, so I
sit up and pull your flushed and
sweating face into a kiss that
tastes of all three of us.

The Balance of Power

Like some mid-19th. century statesman she
pondered the Balance of Power as the cab
hustled her away from the family home where her
CEO husband had just finished
preparing her for the lover she'd
taken who was about to
give her
to his friends.

Sounds

The shush in the silence is the sound of

stockings being drawn up

close-shaved legs; the soft

snick their attachment to

taut garter-belt; the waterfall of

sibilants is the silken dress covering

nothing else; shuff-pause-

shuff is your sudden

heightening in heels;

scrick is the crooked

wicked smile of a woman

wanting to play.

In the Mood?

The taxi stuttered through traffic as she

tried to put herself in the mood for her

lunch with her lover but she kept

glancing at her phone in case Tommy’s

cough had turned worse at school or the

bloody boiler-man decided to return her

many calls.

But then she remembered her husband’s last

desultory touch, the drip of the

en suite tap, the unmown lawn, the

deep ache she had to be

properly penetrated, so she

switched off her phone and

willed herself wet.

Forgetful Me

It was just forgetfulness I swear and the

daily domestic disaster of getting

two boys and a girl to school, a

days shopping planned, the heat that

made sense of the short sundress.

It wasn’t until the escalator in the Mall and the

soft whistle from below that I discovered that my

knickers were beautifully ironed in their

proper drawer but not on me and I

flushed as I wondered what they could see, those

men down there, looking.

The higher I went the more they would see and

I was suddenly wet thinking of it, wondering if I was

well-groomed, wanting desperately to

root in my bag for something I didn’t need and

pondering whether I owned

enough shoes.