Sunday, 30 December 2012

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.

Thursday, 27 December 2012

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.

Tuesday, 25 December 2012

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.

Thursday, 13 December 2012


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.

Saturday, 1 December 2012

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.

Friday, 23 November 2012


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

Friday, 16 November 2012

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.

Saturday, 27 October 2012

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?

Tuesday, 9 October 2012


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.

Wednesday, 3 October 2012

"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.

Saturday, 29 September 2012

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.

Tuesday, 18 September 2012

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?

Monday, 10 September 2012

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.

Wednesday, 8 August 2012

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.

Tuesday, 24 July 2012

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?

Friday, 15 June 2012


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

Thursday, 7 June 2012

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

Honestly, Ron......

Tuesday, 5 June 2012


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.

Sunday, 3 June 2012


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.

Wednesday, 30 May 2012


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.

Tuesday, 15 May 2012


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.

Monday, 7 May 2012


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.

Thursday, 3 May 2012

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.

Saturday, 28 April 2012

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.

Tuesday, 24 April 2012

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.


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.

Saturday, 14 April 2012

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

Monday, 9 April 2012

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.

Sunday, 8 April 2012

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.

Sunday, 1 April 2012


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.

Thursday, 29 March 2012

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.

Friday, 23 March 2012

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.