Saturday, 30 July 2011

Lost and Found

“She....threatened to go down to N’Orleans
and get herself lost and found”
Captain Beefheart, “Click Clack”.

She stormed out into the
sticky night, her anger
disorienting and
sharpening her senses as she
searched for the
one big thing her
hedgehog mind knew would
wound her pissy partner.

Her short dress and her
high heels, her
bare legs and patent
lack of underwear
made her a magnet in that
busy city centre and
it was only moments before
North met South.

He was perfect for her purpose—
big, built and black—and she
dragged him back to a place
opposite her exit point and
kissed him deeply,
encouraged his hands to
explore her as she waited for her husband to
pay the bill.

Friday, 29 July 2011

A La Carte

(For Erin)

She looked so demure and
prim on his arm as they were
shown to their table, so much the
Midwest housewife a little
overwhelmed with London, her
mouth tightly closed
unnaturally silent.

The waiter proferred menus but
addressed the male as is their
wont so there was no
respite for her as he
ordered aperitifs watching her
mouth twitch and moue,
perusing the menu avidly,
avoiding eyes.

Her husband was stuck in his
conference, so he had
plenty of time to enjoy the
wife dying to be dirty, and his
instructions had been
explicit—that she could only
swallow the gift he’d given her when
directly addressed.

He knew that moment had
arrived as the waiter came to
take their order: “Madam,
what would you like?” and he saw her
throat pulse and a
wicked glint in her eye,
“I think I have a
taste for oysters tonight.”

Tuesday, 26 July 2011

Reward Card

Buying a new belt for him was hard as the
correct parameters were difficult to judge in the
frowsty department store surrounded by
effete assistants who wouldn’t know how to help her
obsessed as they were with
measurements and not with the
heft in the hand, the
swingability, the precise amount of
pain each would provide for her
naked posterior, that
robust bum upon which the
last one had been broken, so she
chose the one with the width to make her

The girl at the till asked if she had a
reward card and she so much wanted to say that
the belt would be
reward enough.


Each night I open the
journal of your thighs
wherein is written, in
scent and taste, the
history of your sex from
first tentative touch to
frantic fingerings,
deflowerment, experiment with
boys, men, women, me;
bleeding, squeezing
children out but again soon
desirous of being opened, perused,
curled up with, explored and
lovingly read.

Monday, 25 July 2011


She knelt and waited though her
feet were numb beneath her aching bottom and her
thighs and shins felt welded in the
rictus of her knees,
she could feel each
unscratchable itch as her
long hair tickled the
rusted rod of her spine,
her skin was ice, her nipples
looked like they were clamped and she
needed to pee but
she knelt and waited.

Thursday, 21 July 2011

London Night

The car door closed with a
reassuring thunk and there was a
moment’s blessed silence to
take stock and hope her
heart would stop racing and her
hands would stop trembling on the
steering-wheel where the
heavy gold of her
wedding ring glinted in the
green, red, amber haze of a
London night as she
sat savouring the
unfamiliar taste of
someone else.

Wednesday, 20 July 2011


She’d had to sack someone which
always made her bristle so her
secretary sidled silently in to
deliver the package which
sat ignored through several
sharp phonecalls until she
ripped its DHL’d wrapping to reveal a
hinged well-made box containing a
heavy leather-handled chain attached to a thick
collar on which was embossed in
silver the word SLUT, and a note:
“I will enjoy making you wear this,
parading you
naked on all fours in front of
my friends, Your
Secret Admirer.”

She reached for the phone, tried to
recall the number for Security but
hand and phone never met, her
eyes never left the
obscene gift and her
mind couldn’t get rid of the
sordid image of herself so
graphically described and she
became aware of a faint
scent of herself in the
otherwise sterile office.