April 13, 2015



Yeah, yeah, I admit it: I was born out of tune with my times. I just want to dance round a fire in the woods at midnight with women who wear white Victorian underclothes. I want the heat of the flames and the heat of the women. I want to see the moon and stars reflected in their eyes.

I want to wake to mornings misty and cold, where the air makes me shiver through to my bones, and watch from the window as Cathy stands at Heathcliff’s garden-gate – and glimpse the first feathery flakes of snow falling.

Modern life is like having your brain fucked by a cactus while simultaneously hanging upside down from a butchers hook and being slowly garroted with piano wire by two white-faced, crazy clowns. It’s the reason I give myself to brutal women, dominant females with flint-hard eyes, who dress in fetishistic black corsetry and fishnet stockings, and who taste my skin with their crops and whips. These women I bleed for. Women who love to smell flowers in the dark, inhale and imprison the myriad fragrant pollen souls, before taking a good long piss into my gaping, abject mouth.

And afterwards, after hell, the empty MacDonald’s bags on the pavement outside, the festering sky dominating the horizon, the crazy fuckin’ traffic. You don’t know what noise is until you go outside. Hit the antique shops, why not, look at the art, the paintings, Victorian watercolours of girls in blue stockings, dancing.

I wish I’d witnessed Anna Pavlova dance. One of the most famous of ballerinas, she danced the Dying Swan especially choreographed for her by Michel Fokine. But she died in 1931. I will never see her, never see. My thoughts ripple and coalesce on other great ballerinas – Makharova, Kirkland, Carla Fracci, Yvette Chauviré. Ah, such grace, such charming mystique and technical wizardry. True ballerinas, not just ballet dancers.

My thoughts race erratically. My body is all pain and whip-thin stripes which my head doesn’t want to acknowledge. There’s a mistaken belief that a masochist can’t be punished with pain; they can be – even pain they dislike or hate might arouse, may excite – but it’s still pain they don’t want, or like! And it fuckin’ hurts.

I once knew a dancer, a ballet dancer, not a great ballerina, but a pretty girl with huge eyes and no tits to speak of who was so incredibly supple and did things with me in bed no one else has ever been able to duplicate.

In Morrisons the girl on the cash register smiles at me, bright smile, she recognises me, asks how I’m doing. She has a striking face, freckles on her nose and cheeks, red hair with a central parting. So we flirt with each other as I pack the groceries. The store’s quiet today, no queue of people waiting. I think she’d like me to ask her out. But then again perhaps not. She has a fine mouth, faint red lipstick on pouty lips.

Outside I fantasize. I’m her top, her master, and she meekly submits to my will whenever we’re together. Dominating her, her fragile body, instructing her to kneel and take my cock in her mouth makes me swimmy headed with desire. She reminds me of Alison who was nicknamed the Bush baby. We worked together in Uxbridge a thousand years ago. She loved me to tie her up with silken belts from her robes, and force her to do what she wanted to do anyway. Roughness and love. Tenderness after the storm.

Crossing the carpark with my head full of inappropriate thoughts. I have a damned hard-on that is so strong it’s almost painful. If nothing else it takes my mind away from the other pains.

I remember the woman who was often in her front garden when I passed by on my daily walk. That was two, three summers ago now. She moved away. Ipswich she went, I believe. What was her name…?

I always said, ‘Good afternoon’ as I passed by. She’d give me a smile in acknowledgement. Then one day she was standing beside the front gate, and we chatted about her cat. That’s right. Ginger and white moggy, it was. We chatted every day after that. Then one Wednesday she offered me a drink of homemade lemonade…

Ruth, that was her name. She was older than me. Quite a bit older. We sat in her living room drinking lemonade. She told me she loved shopping, even grocery shopping. She enjoyed (honest to God) ironing, said she found it “cathartic”! Jokingly, I said she could do mine. She was obviously lonely.

She’d been married, but was now divorced. Hubby had buggered off with a younger model some years before. She told me she didn’t miss him, but she did miss sex. We started talking about sex. She was very open and I trusted her enough to explain how much I loved giving oral to a woman.

She looked a little disgusted by the idea. ‘Doesn’t the smell put you off.’

‘Nothing puts me off,’ I assured her. ‘I love it. It’s my big kink. I’d do it all day long if I could.’

Ruth invited me over for lunch the following Saturday. We didn’t actually get to eat lunch, but I did eat Ruth. Oh, boy, did I. She was a little awkward with it at first. But not for too long…

We had a number of assignations after that. All just for fun. Ruth had a fantasy about being tied down and ravaged. She hadn’t even told her hubby about it during their twelve years together, which I thought a shame. She wanted to be used by a small group of men, strangers…

We discussed in great detail what should be permissible, what not in this fantasy. I also suggested to her fantasy is often best left as fantasy. ‘I’d really love to give it ago,’ she said. So I made all the arrangements. And three weeks later, dear Ruth found herself hogtied naked to her bed, legs spread, surrounded by four very erect, very insatiable young cocks…

At home I drift like a ghost. I can smell the cloying, clashing perfumes from the two mistresses on my clothes, my body; also I catch the occasional hint of spilt urine. I need to take a shower but fear the smarting pain I know I’ll experience under hot water jets.

Life can be such a bitch…

I told Ruth reality can always be beaten if you have enough imagination. This was after her “gang rape” scenario. She sat there, this fifty-something woman, hair messed-up, face flushed deep-scarlet, and said, ‘I couldn’t manage that again for awhile. Too tender down you-know-where. But I’m certainly up for it once that’s better…’

Pleasure and pain.

Eating and fucking, that’s the true meaning of this life.

Hankering after a time before telephones, I use the telephone, call Dee at her office. It was her final instruction to me this morning before her departure. She’d already arranged the appointment with Mistress Helen and Mistress Joyce; she’d left instructions for what must be done, the punishments I must endure. It was the price I had to pay in order to reassure her; she feels I paid too much attention to Gabby at the weekend. By leaving everything to Dee to arrange, it demonstrates how much I trust her; by accepting the chastisements of these two spiteful vixens, it demonstrates how much I love her. Or so she says.

On the telephone I tell her in detail what was done, the pain inflicted. She asks if I was allowed to ejaculate, and I tell her no. ‘I’ll examine you as soon as I get home,’ she says. ‘I want to see all the marks and bruises.’

‘I need a shower,’ I tell her.

‘Do you smell of them?’

‘Yeah, a little. They took turns sitting on my face.’

‘You drank their pee?’

‘Only Mistress Joyce’s. She put a funnel in my mouth.’

‘Leave the shower,’ Dee orders sharply. ‘I want to see how bad you smell myself. I wanted them both to pee in your mouth. If you’ve only drunk one lot, you can drink mine when I get home. Are you sorry for what you’ve done?’

‘Of course, yes. I didn’t realise I was doing it. Forgive me. You know I love you, Dee.’

‘I’ll see you when I get home. Have a large jug ready for me. You can sip mine from a wine glass…’


Gabriella stayed over Saturday night. She came for a meal with us, wore a new black satin dress, which I watched her take off and place carefully on a hanger. Then laying on her back across the bed opening white legs, while Dee covered her face with butterfly kisses.

All Saturday’s should be spent this way.

We eat cauliflower cous cous with cabbage, carrot and almonds, followed by pancakes with chocolate orange sauce and tangerine slices on the side. Gabby was impressed once again by my kitchen geekery…And so she should be (Lol)! We drank rosé wine with the food, and finished with brandy and coffee.

Conversation covered many topics but skirted the issue of Gabby’s returning home permanently. We discussed Elizabeth Jane Howard’s autobiography, Slipstream, which Gabby has just read and which we both agree is interesting, but reads at times like a reticent “cover up”; she shows herself always in the role of victim, an innocent, terribly naïve, frequently “in love” and “sobbing uncontrollably”, blithely ignoring the marital status of the men she “loves”. She even climbed into bed with Nancy Spain, but “it doesn’t seem to be any good. Never mind.”

We talk about our coming trip to Italy. Gabby has been busy purchasing a new summer wardrobe. Dee was enthusiastic: ‘I must pick up some new stuff. Test the friendship of my flexible friend.’

I agree in the hope my acquiescence will prevent any further comments on the number of new books I’ve purchased recently. Dee’s universal refrain is, ‘We haven’t got the space! Place looks like a library as it is!’

Gabby has lost some weight. Her weight has always been an issue (obsession) with her. She was, she says, a plump child. Dieting through her teens, diet pills, slimming regimes all left her a little crazy in the head (that’s her excuse, anyway). It seems less of a problem for her now; she’s more accepting of herself. She’s learned to love herself (a little bit at any rate), and seems happy in her own skin.

Anyway we rolled upstairs to bed. Exchanged kisses. Got undressed and the phone rang. It was the landline, and as it was after midnight I thought it was probably important. I left Dee and Gabby amorously entwined, soixante-neuf, and went to answer it.

It was my sister. Another of her domestic drama’s (disasters?). An hour-and-a-quarter later I hung-up (I kid you not!), promising I’d speak to her again soon.

Returning upstairs I found the girls fast asleep in each other’s arms. I tip-toed to the spare room and settled for the night. Sunday morning would be long and lazy, and the three of us would have plenty of time to play our games together…

Charity Begins at Home

April 13, 2015


They met in a secondhand bookshop
And said many secondhand things,
Exchanging, first, meaningful verses
And, later, eternity rings.

Each book that they gave to each other
Held words that they wished they had used
To articulate all those deep feelings
The passage of time then diffused.

For now she has gone beyond reaching,
Their life-lines are quite out of touch,
And the words she’d inscribed on the flyleaves
No longer can resonate much

If at all – so he packs with their credo
[The carefully framed Gestalt prayer]
Those books and the crumbling joss-sticks
[Patchouli still hangs in the air]

For everything there is a season:
Till next time, he’d reached a fullstop.
He’d cut out her words from flyleaves.
The rest’s for the charity shop.

We love tops…

April 13, 2015


We love tops who are vicious and nasty and turn their bottoms into cringing mounds of adoring submission. We love tops who are nurturing and sweet while they inflict the most amazing agonies. We love tops whose aura of command is so straightforward and matter-of-fact that their bottoms can completely forget, for a little while, that the world is a complicated

We love top daddies and top mommies, top nurses and top interrogators, sweetheart sadists and control queens, nurturing dominants and mean mistresses, nasty kids and mad scientists.
We love tops so much that we’re writing a book to help make sure there are more good ones: tops who glow with the pure white light of control, power, intimacy and love; tops who are skilled at their craft and passionate about their art; tops who pour themselves into their bottoms, beat well, and create a dish as fiery as curry or as sweet as pie.

Dossie Easton and Janet W. Hardy
The New Bottoming Book




A simple message…

April 13, 2015