Office appropriate

He has a thing for the professional- looking woman. I work in an office where jeans, t- shirts and DM boots are perfectly acceptable attire, but he’d like me to wear smarter clothes to work, something a little more ‘dress- for- the- job- you- want’. I have never been smart; I am the opposite of smart. I don’t see myself as professional, put together, office appropriate. I need him to see me that way before I can manage it myself.

But I have the component parts of the required look. When he arrives at my house I have been trying on a new outfit: wide- legged grey wool trousers with a thin white pinstripe and a vintage fake- silk blouse with a beautiful high embroidered collar, fastened with tiny buttons. It’s not really office appropriate, the blouse, because while the cut is extremely modest the fabric is sheer, but it’s a fair start. I open the door to him, and he looks me up and down and smiles. I run downstairs to make him a cup of tea, glowing inwardly at the expression on his face, a mixture of pleasure and curiosity.

Twenty minutes later I am in my bedroom, kneeling on the seat of an office chair, with my trousers and white cotton knickers pulled down, my black suede kitten heels kicked off and my hands tied together with a leather belt. He stands behind me and gently canes me on the arse and the tops of my thighs, rubbing my buttocks with his palm after every several strokes. Gently and then harder, my chin resting on the fuzzy fabric of the chair, which swivels ever so slightly with every hit, leaving me feeling something close to nauseous but not quite. I hear him undo his jeans and feel him push himself inside me. He fucks me briskly for a little while, but for some reason it hurts a bit, and when I tell him this he offers to go slowly. I breathe in the feeling of the leather chafeing against my wrists, his cock moving sweetly and gingerly in and almost out as the chair rocks beneath me.

At his request I look at myself in the full- length mirror as he fucks me, watching my expressions change, passing across my face like clouds. Grinning, gleeful, concentrating, biting my lip, eyes widening, looking pained (but not longer feeling it). He stops, and I feel him bend down and reach for the first shoe, which he slips onto my foot as if he were Prince Charming and I Cinderella, and then the next. I enjoy the thought of him looking down at me, in my faux silk and pinstripe wool and elegant little heels, my chin resting on my bound wrists, my thighs marked with blush- coloured stripes, as he stands behind me and fucks my arse. Me in my professional office girl costume, him in his workwear, paint- spattered jeans and cap and scuffed, heavy boots.

My knees are hurting with the pressure of kneeling on the seat, so he lets me climb down from the chair and fucks me standing up, bent over very slightly at the waist. I ask if I can touch myself and he gives me permission, but my hands are tied so tight that I can’t reach, other than gently stroking my clit with my little fingers. I whine with frustration, my fingers so close but so far from being able to do as I wish- to press firmly on my clit as he moves roughly inside me, to make myself come, wet and hard, rather than tickle and tease. I give up trying, and concentrated on pushing back on his cock, my bent legs wobbling with the exertion, until I hear him gasp and breath out and feel him stop moving behind me. He cleans himself up and and I manoeuvre myself onto my knees, grinning as I lick and suck on his softening cock until he shudders, raising his arms in the air like a victorious puppet.


We are collecting ourselves, fastening buttons, putting on shoes. I am struggling, my hands still tied, but persisting in my efforts, because doing so makes me laugh. I look down at my wrists, wrapped in soft brown leather, the brass buckle flapping gently as I move.

Take a picture of my hands, I say.

Do you maybe want to rephrase that, he replies.

I correct myself. Would you please take a picture of my hands? I can’t do it because you tied my hands so nicely.

He takes the photo, showing the cuffs of my blouse and my hands pressed together as if in quiet prayer, before chivvying me to get ready so he can get to a meeting and I can get to a yoga class. I need to buy some shoes to go with my outfit. Something smart, not a DM but not a high heel either; as he sagely points out, wearing high heels all day can cause pain and damage, and he has previously said that he objects to the idea of my being in pain he did not directly cause. He suggests instead a nice brogue. I am completely down with this idea.


I don’t know what to write about this week, I say. It’s Sunday, and nothing’s coming, and I’ll have nothing to post.

Write about last night, he says. Write about that thick cotton rope. Write about how it felt. How did it feel?

Lovely, I say.

A bit thuddy?

A bit thuddy. We like thuddy.

There you go, he says. You can write about that.

I can take a photo of it, add that, I say.

Make sure you show it alongside your wrist, you’ve got skinny wrists, he says.

I can do that.


I saw it in the attic yesterday morning, in amongst the overflowing cardboard boxes, Ikea bags full of unworn clothes, memorabilia, dust bunnies. I looked at it, coiled white on the wooden floor, lurking. I don’t know why it’s here, or what it’s for, but it doesn’t matter. In so few months, so many everyday things have been transformed, overlaid with new and hitherto unconsidered uses: chains, ropes, chopping boards, wooden spoons, carpet beaters…

He saw it later that evening. Ooh, look, he said. Fat flexible cotton rope.

I know, I said. I thought of you when I saw that.

Did you now? he laughs.

Five minutes later I am lying on my front on the bed, my knickers pulled down, my already bruised arse on show. He’s not going to tie me with it- it’s too thick. I am laughing, waiting to find out what a piece of rope that size feels like when used as an instrument of impact. The answer is heavy. Soft, but heavy, landing with a quiet thump. It doesn’t sting, not like thinner rope might. It’s more diffuse, kinder somehow, even landing on previous bruises. It’s divine.

He turns me round through 90 degrees, stands at the end of the bed with his trousers pulled down, and tells me to suck his cock. I comply, gasping and snuffling as he carries on hitting me with the fat coils. He catches that sorest spot, the crease where buttock meets thigh, and I let out a muffled, wounded cry. Even this relatively kind tool can be used to cause the kind of pain I similtaneously wish to stop and never want to have to live without.

He fucks me, this unaccustomed bed rattling beneath us as he moves harder and faster. My arse and thighs are glowing joyously as he rolls me onto my side and I move my hips against him, riding every second of pleasure out of him even after he has come. When he slips out of me I turn to face him, and we grin at each other for seconds, minutes.

I like you, he says.

I like you too, I say.

‘Like’ means ‘love’ in our shared vocabulary. We use the two interchangably.


This evening an online friend and I were talking about a shared fantasy, what it’s like when you tell a Dom a fantasy and, from that point on, know that it may very well actually happen in the future. She has told her Daddy that she wants to be taken into the woods and used by him and another sadist, used and hurt and mistreated. In her fantasy she will have nettles stuffed into her underwear, which she’ll probably hate in real life, she laments.

I tell the Adorable Sadist about this conversation. She says she’ll probably hate that part, I say. He has talked about doing the same to me, and I’m not sure I’ll hate it. I can’t possibly know.

When I was weeding the other day I stung my finger on a nettle, I say. But it’s different, isn’t it? My finger’s not an erogenous zone.

And anyway, it’s more than that, he says. If I did that to you and then took you out in public, you’d have to stay composed, and that would be a different thing altogether. If I put nettles in your knickers, and bra, and then you had to sit and talk to your family, keep it together…

I whimper down the phone. I imagine him pulling my knicker elastic out in front of me and his gloved hand pushing the leafy mass between my legs. That same pain I felt on my finger, my skin reacting to those tiny bristles filled with toxin, only the heat and the stinging is on my labia and my clit, leaving them swollen and red and angry. I can’t imagine how I wouldn’t hate and love that in equal measure.

Whereas, in a pub or something… the nettles go all pulpy after a while, and little bits fall out, he says. With your family, I’d suggest you wear jeans, whereas in a pub, little bits of nettle could fall out and it wouldn’t matter so much. You’d feel like you were on the spot. People might notice, little green bits falling out from under your skirt… If we were at a kink event I’d ask you to bend over and pick the little bits up in front of everyone. It all depends.

We talk a little bit more, about things he’d like me to do, things he’d like to do to me. We talk about limits, things I’m not into, things I could be convinced to try if I felt safe enough. He says one thing I’m not ready to write about yet, may never be, but which makes my cunt pulse and flare like phosphorous hitting water.

There are things you would never have known you’d want to do, but will do because they turn me on and you want to please me, he says. I nod, my mouth slightly open. You might hate them. But you might find that they turn you on massively, and you’d never have known.


I like you, he says.

I like you too. I say. I like it when you do things to me that hurt.

The reception’s not great; he couldn’t hear. He asks me to say it again.

I say it again, louder, enunciating every word.


I send a message to my online friend.

‘The nettles thing is definitely happening, probably soon. I’ll report back’.






The walk

I went for a walk this afternoon, past the rows of red- brick houses and the cemetery up to the nature reserve. The sky was a dismal grey and a very fine rain misted my hair. I’d been cooped up in my room too long, staring at a glowing screen, eating slapdash meals and sleeping late, and it didn’t matter that it was as unpretty a day as you could imagine- it was good to be outdoors.

I’d changed out of my quasi- pyjamas for the first time that weekend, and was wearing my favourite dress, a yellow and black 60s print affair, tight on the bust and hips, with a denim jacket, socks and brown leather ankle boots. Walking down the street listening to shy birdsong curling through the trees I felt calmer than I had done for ages- no longer dull and sedated after hours of cutting and pasting, shifting pixels and drawing thoughtless loops on a touchscreen with my forefinger, but awake, alert. The rain on my face felt like a playful greeting. 

A car sped past me hooting its horn and breaking the quiet. A man’s voice shouted, and his words were muffled as they moved past me, but something in his tone felt as if they were aimed at me. My anklet was caught in between my sock and the top of my boot, and I bent over to free it so as not to be irritated by the chain rubbing against my shin. As I stood up straight a young man walked past me. Medium height, wearing jeans and trainers and a hooded top. When he was six feet in front of me he turned round and smiled, licking his lips. I smiled back, awkwardly and despite myself, and watched him as he paced away. He was clean, sober and tidy- looking, unremarkable but something flashed across his face in that moment that made me feel dirty, momentarily drunk. 

Ten minutes later I was striding up a hill, a slope with wooden stairs built in to shore up the earth. It’s surrounded by trees, with rows of untidy bushes on either side. As I marched up the stairs, my breathing louder and sweat accumulating under my arms, I felt an unfamiliar brush of fabric against the back of my thighs. I reached behind myself and felt the back of my dress, which has a split in the back as far as the base of my buttocks, with a panel of fabric stitched behind it, hiding my thighs and arse from view.

The split in my skirt had torn by about two inches so that the stitches holding the panel of fabric to the rest of my skirt was hanging adrift. I was flashing my inner thighs and red- knickered arse to everyone. I stood still and grasped the fabric tight in my fist, feeling very ashamed for a second, alone in this quiet piece of woodland, my hand hiding the flash of red cotton. I remembered that flash of pink tongue on the pavement minutes before, and I felt woozy again. 

My first instinct was to turn tail and head home, to untie my jacket and fasten it round my waist, in the manner of a teenage girl surprised by her period, humiliated by that red badge of unaccustomed womanhood. Instead I carried on walking, thinking about the times I’d told you about climbing stairs wearing short skirts on days when you’d mandated I go without knickers, almost sure that not just my stocking tops but my bare cunt were on show to anyone standing at the right angle. Almost, but never quite sure- and that was always the best part. You knew that was the bit I liked most- the plausible deniability. 

 I thought about what you’d say if I were to tell you that I’d taken my jacket off and tied it round my waist to hide whatever it was that happened to be on show behind that ripped skirt. I knew you’d be disappointed. You’d say that it wasn’t my cunt on show, it was yours, and it was no longer up to me to decide whether men other than yourself got to enjoy a glimpse of it. You’d ask me where a slut like me- your slut- thought I got the right to act so fucking modest all of a sudden. I could hear your voice asking the question, not angry but matter of fact. I shrugged my jacket back onto my shoulders, and climbed to the top of the slope, wondering how much would be on display to anyone walking below and behind me, how much hidden in shadow.

I kept walking, feeling the breeze on the back of my thighs. I knew my arse was on display. I looked ahead of me, seeing no one in either direction. I thought about what would happen if the path wasn’t so deserted. I imagined someone walking behind me, maybe walking their dogs, maybe two men going for a Sunday walk, who might push me into the bushes and tear the hanging piece of fabric away, pulling my red knickers down around my thighs…

Without really knowing why, I found myself veering away from the stony path into the line of bushes that ran alongside it, trying to avoid stinging nettles and feeling the angry scratch of brambles against my calves. I stood and closed my eyes, hidden there in the mulch of leaves and twigs, and imagined myself bent at the waist, my skirt pulled up, holding on to the trunk of a tall tree, a hard cock pushing up against my arse. I pictured a hand at the small of my back as I was led back down those steps to the derelict house at the bottom of the hill, walking through an unlocked door. 

I bit my lip and saw myself in my mind’s eye, pushed to my hands and knees, my thighs pushed apart, my jaw pulled wide to take a second cock, my dress unzipped roughly and pulled down to reveal my tits, confining my arms to my side in accidental bondage. A slap to the face when I didn’t suck carefully enough, my knees sore on the gritty concrete floor, the smell of damp and rot and sweaty skin, and the wet sounds of my mouth round one cock and the other driving in and out of my cunt, faster and more carelessly by the second.  No kissing, no affection, no intimacy, no pretence- just heat, need, pressure, flesh grabbed and pleasure taken, an animal response to an advertisement of indiscriminate availability. 

I stood and listened to the rain hitting leaves and the birds singing, and leant against the trunk of a quiet elm tree, feeling the bark rough against my cheek. I reached between my legs, grabbed your cunt and squeezed it through the cotton of my dress. Lifting my face to the sky I enjoyed the drops of rain cooling my unembarrassed face. I turned round and walked home. I didn’t see a soul all the way back to my house.


I am looking at a photo and remembering the evening I sustained these bruises. Bent over and locked in stocks, the unfamiliar sensation of wood circling my neck and wrists. An audience, standing behind crash barriers, watching as my skirt is pulled up and the flat of his hand hits my arse, and then the cane. The thin line, my knees bending, the pain fireworking across my flesh. A Catherine wheel, a remarkable rocket, stars spiralling across a night sky. 

He bends to kiss me and tells me to turn my head and smile for the viewing public. I laugh, and obey, blinded by lights and deafened by pain and pleasure. He hits me again three times and in response I stamp my high- heeled foot three times, like a pony who doesn’t know if she’s happy or angry. I am grinning and shining and wet and filling up to my brim, shouting thanks and yellow and wiggling my bum to the beat and counting off and dancing towards and away and towards and away from the pain, such pain, ah, such pleasure. 

I have had enough for the moment. He pulls my skirt down and helps me vertical. I stumble towards him, my mouth an endorphined snarl, my eyelids heavy, and hold his arm like a drunk leaning on a policeman as he walks me to the bar. I drink a plastic glass of water, and he leads me to the private dungeon, where he bends me over a massage table, rubs and then slaps my calming arse afire again. 

Ten more minutes, maybe, and when he is done I am beyond all things. When I am steady on my feet we walk back to his truck through the park we went to the night we first met, where we sat beneath a full moon yawning happily and looked over the city, across the harbour and tree line to the hills. That night we talked about druids, family, horses and funerals, laughed and looked at each other and laughed. Well, he said after a lull in the conversation; this is a bit magical, isn’t it? 

And then he took me to a moonlit corner and we kissed, and he pulled my dress up and spanked me, there in the lingering warmth of an August night, and bent and blew raspberries on my belly. When I stopped squealing I sighed ‘you make me laugh’ in the way I only ever do to people I will end up loving with all my heart. 

It’s still magical. It’s still so magical.

Moments from my first play party

We are sitting in his truck, parked outside an industrial estate in a small West Country market town. It is a sunny Sunday afternoon- I am sitting with my feet propped on the dashboard, and the plastic is warm beneath my soles. I am painting my toenails whore- scarlet, ready to lace my feet into a newly purchased pair of leopardskin five- inch heels. You know, proper cumslut shoes, he said when he described the shoes he wanted me to buy, and these were the closest I could find. I sort of hate them, but my liking them isn’t the point. He wants me to work the edges of my comfort zone emotionally and physically- he wants me discomforted, embarrassed and tottering. 

I wriggle out of my bra. I am wearing the slutty housedress, which doesn’t go with the shoes at all. I hate how little it matches the shoes. I am showing too much tit for a Sunday afternoon in a small market town, and I’m wearing cumslut shoes, and this is all a lot; it’s a LOT.

Can I wear my jumper until we get inside, I ask. 

Absolutely not, don’t be ridiculous, he says. He smiles, and shakes his head.

I sigh, and take a deep breath, and have a word with myself. I open the truck door, and swing my feet out into the open air, lace up my ridiculous cumslut shoes. He jumps out of the truck, slams the door shut, and walks round to the passenger side. I lean on him as I totter, baby giraffe- like, towards the iron staircase that leads up to the club.


I am being given a tour. I see the bathrooms, and the vac- bed room, and the dungeon, where a Domme in a corset is whipping the broad pale back of a yowling man. I see the orgy room, with its rubber- sheeted bed, glittery curtains and clearly labelled fire exits. I am shown the Dark Room, and the lockers, and the tea urn and buffet table. There are punnets of cherry tomatoes, and sausage rolls, and homemade pizza in labelled Tupperware. We bought oatcakes, some bananas, and a bag of pre- packed salad. There are four tubes of Pringles.

The owner of my club holds my hand throughout the tour. I am obviously wobbly on my slut shoes.


We are sitting on the sofa, about five of us, chatting over the noise of a whip slicing through the air. Someone walks into the room and asks if anyone has a spare flogger he could borrow. Everyone laughs: As if he was asking if anyone has a spare lighter, says the girl next to me. A flogger is found, and conversation is resumed.

He passes me a cushion and tells me to sit on the floor. With his help I move myself onto the floor at his feet. I say I am thirsty, and he fashions a bowl from a plastic box that previously held mini- brownies, and pours some water into it.

I pull myself onto all fours and bend over to slurp some water from the improvised bowl. My tit falls out of my dress. I scoop it back into my bodice, and look around. No one notices. I fetch him some food, and a drink, and when he has eaten I fill a washing bowl with warm water and undo his shoes, remove his socks.

I have been here for two hours. I am washing his feet, rubbing between his toes, massaging his ankles with the flannel. He tells me to check with my tongue if I have rinsed all the soap off, and I kiss his toes, the soles of his feet, his Achilles heel, his instep. I replace his socks and re- tie his boots, kissing the knot of each lace as gently as I might kiss the space between his arsehole and his balls.

Two hours.


I am eating my dinner from a paper plate on the floor. I am trying to manoeuvre a piece of vegetable quiche into my mouth but it won’t go, so I prod it with my tongue to the edge of the plate until I can flip it onto its side. There are bits of salad in my hair, and I have peanut butter in my nostril.

I am distracted by the sight of a woman in her 60s inserting a tail buttplug in between the naked cheeks of her male sub, a small tanned man of similar age. He must be a naturist; only naturists have buttocks that brown, I think, as his tail swishes slightly against the backs of his knees.

I realise I may be staring, and turn back to my quiche. It is not the best quiche I have ever eaten, but it was one of very few vegetarian options.


I am standing in the dungeon. I am wearing a gag, and he has pulled my tits out of my dress and is whipping them. I stand with my legs spread wide and pretend no one is watching as the whip hits me underneath and then squarely on the nipple. I flinch and step backwards, and my balance shifts on my heels, and I wobble towards the St. Andrew’s Cross.

No flinching, he says. We don’t want you to fall off your shoes. I laugh around the metal arms of the gag. Spit is beginning to run down my chin, and my tits are stinging gorgeously. He pulls me to him and kisses me across the gag, like we were kissing through prison bars. He goes to get another implement from his bag, telling me to slap myself in the tits until he returns. I raise my eyebrows but do so automatically, marvelling at the sound of palm hitting breast in a steady four/ four rhythm.


Take your knickers off, he tells me. I step out of them, and carefully bend over to pick them up. He takes the knickers and stuffs them in my mouth through the narrow metal aperture. I taste myself on the damp cotton.

The young girl has changed into a bunny costume. He leads me out of the dungeon by the hand, and as we pass she smiles and asks if I had to take my knickers off because they were wet. I nod and mumble a muffled assent. She laughs. You’re gorgeous, she says to me. I say thankyou as clearly as I can with a mouthful of underwear.

He leads me to a private room, bends me over the bed, and fucks my arse. He pulls me upright, his cock still inside me, his mouth at my ear and on my neck, and I stand with my arms braced against the wall, steadier on my heels than I could have imagined. I know I can be heard by the people outside, just as I could hear the people in this room as I sat on the sofa. The thought makes me moan louder. He tells me he doesn’t want to come inside me yet, asks me to suck him clean, and zips up. We go back outside and I make him a cup of tea.

Are you having fun? The man who gave me the tour asks as I pour hot water into the mug.

Of course she is, says the man next to him, grinning. Look at her breasts.


I am lying on my back on the orgy bed, the doors to the locker room open so anybody getting changed can see. My legs are spread, skirt is pulled up to my waist and my cunt is on show. He is whipping my right thigh and only my right thigh. 

It’s right thigh day, he says. Nothing for the left thigh on right thigh day. It’s like Sesame Street. The theme of the day is the right thigh.

I laugh. Nothing about this is anything like Sesame Street, I say.

A man walks in to the room and looks down at me. He laughs. See her face? He says to those standing around. That’s why we do this. Look at that face.

I open my legs and gasp with laughter as leather hits my clit.


I am sitting on a stool, my breasts roped, taut like a drum and bared, my hands tied behind my back. One man is gently whipping my front with a thin tailed leather whip. Compared to the Adorable Sadist’s work it is a gentle tickle, but they are so sore that it’s enough.

He is behind me, having at my shoulders with a flogger. In minutes I am gasping and screaming and laughing hysterically, flying, flinching away, moving towards, reaching for him, pushing my tits towards the whip, arching my back, the rope so sweetly tight on my wrists, my hair in my face, his lips on the nape of my neck, I am flying, I am flying.


We stand opposite each other, inches apart.

Look at me, he says. Look at me.

 I look him dead in the eye, grinning, my mouth open.

Do you know why I do this, he asks.

I shake my head. Why?

He laughs. Because I absolutely fucking love it. Why do you do it?

I smile at him, and raise my chin. Because I absolutely fucking love it, I say.

Really? He asks.

Because I absolutely fucking love it.

He kisses me. I kiss him back. There is no one else in the room.

Stripy vest

The stripy vest was sitting deep in the corner of the Drawer of Iniquity, under the rope, cable ties, dildos and dog bowls. The Drawer of Iniquity used to be the Drawer of Forgotten Clothing- the cheap shit bulk buys you pick up and throw in your basket on payday and then never, ever wear, or the bobbly yoga pants you keep to wear on sick days but which give you upsetting camel toe. The Drawer of Iniquity’s current contents are more regularly made use of and give vastly more pleasure to all concerned. I’ve literally never worn this, I said, pulling it out of the drawer. 

Put it on, he said. 

I wriggled into the vest, pulling it down so it showed off my cleavage. His eyes lit up.

Suits you, he said. We kissed. His hands travelled across my midriff, over my breasts, his fingers pinching my nipples. Oh yes, it definitely suits you. 

Ten minutes later we were talking about something- I can’t remember what- and he grabbed my cunt hard, so hard that I shouted as he squeezed the fleshy mound firmly in his palm. He did it again, and again. I was laughing, but I hated it. It hurt so much. It never occurred to me to ask him to stop. 

He kissed me, and I kissed him back, while he let go of my cunt and then grabbed it again, seizing it and pressing down with the heel of his palm. I kissed him harder, my legs opening, kicking and thrashing, banging my feet against the mattress like an ignored child. 

You’re such a little painslut, aren’t you? He laughed as he pushed his cock inside me and I lifted my hips to meet him, angry and grateful. I would never have thought to hear that term applied to me. When I look back I can’t identify the point in time at which I stopped hating him grabbing me; it was and remains intangible. The grabbing was horrible, and then, without my noticing, it was fucking everything. Just thinking about it now I feel a little bit wet and wriggly. It doesn’t make sense, not at all. 


Later that night we lay in his bed. He told me to kiss the present he’d made me- a leather strap with copper rivets and my name engraved on it- and then hit my right thigh with it again and again. I hated it. When he fucked me I came so loud he had to ask me to shhh. It seems that whether I like pain or not is immaterial; I mostly don’t enjoy it, but it makes me come like a train. 

Before I met him, when I was thinking about what my kinks were or might be, I knew I wanted to be spanked, but in retrospect it was mainly attractive because of the humiliation factor. I didn’t think about the pain. I think it’s a bit like what they say about forgetting the agony of childbirth- it’s difficult to remember pain, but it’s also hard to imagine. You have to feel it to know. 

8 weeks

I open the front door, and there he is. He grins his deafening grin, and we are hugging, tight, my arms round his waist, and my face in the curve of his neck. I had forgotten how well we fit together. 

In the kitchen I make coffee, cut smoked salmon, rattle plates, dither awkwardly. We smile at each other, and pronounce short, declarative sentences. Well. I missed you. Hello. It’s good to see you. It’s good to hear your laugh. I missed you. Hello.

A pan of potatoes is boiling on the hob. I stab at them with a fork, waiting for their flesh to yield. He gets up from his chair and stands behind me, loops his arms round my waist and presses his lips to a point midway between earlobe and shirt collar. I sigh deeply, and turn to face him. In minutes we are dancing a blind, stumbling triangle around the kitchen, kissing furiously, his hands either side of my face and messing my hair. We kiss and pause and laugh and stumble and dance and kiss until a noise from outside forces us apart. We have already been caught in a close embrace by one amused housemate- I spring away before we are caught twice. I giggle and smooth my hair. He sits down. We grin at each other, and I check the potatoes. They are perfect.


I forgot to buy salad. I tell him so, apologetically, expecting a reassuring ’That’s okay, I don’t mind’. That’s quite normal, he says instead in a deadpan, unsurprised tone of voice. I laugh delightedly. I have met you, he says. I know what you’re like.

I had forgotten this. 8 weeks is a long time. Sometimes when something ends and it hurts, you have to expend so much energy not to remember how sweet it was; it is such a relief to be bathed in us again.


We are in my bedroom. I am sucking his cock and pulling off his trousers similtaneously. I pull off his socks, swirling my tongue over and around, over and over. He turns and I bury my face between his flesh, gripping his thighs and lapping at his arsehole, breath coming in short gasps.

Hello. I missed you so much. Hello.

He pushes me onto the bed, face down, pulls my cheeks apart, spits, pushes his way home. I moan, my nostrils full of the scent of freshly laundered cotton, my arms over my head, his hands pressed over mine, pressing me prone. He moves inside me and in minutes my breath is strangled and gutteral. I twist at the waist and his mouth is there, searching for mine.


We talk about why I ended- paused- things. I try and remember the metaphor I used to my counsellor- if you feel like you’ve spent years hiding behind a wall, then breaking that wall down needs to be a process of removing one brick at a time, maybe a few. But what he and I did, over the course of those few weeks, was to merrily smash at the wall with mallets, whooping and laughing. And then one day I looked around, and my wall was gone, and I was standing surrounded by rubble in a cloud of dust, with a man I didn’t know that well. And the man was a sadist. And he had a mallet.

And I got scared. Intellectually, I say, I don’t know if we work, but I can’t quite convince my heart. We talk for a little while longer, but soon he is inside me again, and as long as he is inside me I am unlikely to be able to argue we should be apart.


I am lying on my back. his thigh pressing against mine, forcing my legs open. His finger is on my clit, sliding in purposeful circles. I turn my head to one side and whine.

I can’t.

What? Say that again.

I can’t… I can’t.

You can’t what?

I can’t come any more.

Say that again, I can’t hear you.

I can’t come any more.

He laughs. Ahh, poor baby. He removes his hand and gives me his fingers to suck.


We talk. We fuck. We laugh. We laugh while fucking, Stop fucking to talk. I find out he is leaving my house to meet one of his other partners, and I am upset, but then we talk about it and soon it’s okay, it’s gone. We fuck, we talk, we laugh. It’s okay. It could work.

The ease with which my cock fits your arse is proof there is a God, he says, and all I can do in response is smile.


I am kneeling in the bath. The curtains are drawn. I tilt my head back and open my mouth. A hot rain falls on my face, over my closed eyelids, along my hairline, over my breasts and belly. I swallow. I open my mouth. The rain falls. I swallow.

I wipe my eyes, and make as if to stand. No, not yet, we need to turn the water on first, he says. It is December, and the water from the shower is a cold insult. I scream, and move to get up. No, stay, he says. He is laughing, and so am I. I beat at his legs with my fists in mock anger. Easy now, he says, with the mildest of warnings in his voice. 

The water finally warms. I stand behind him beneath the shower head and rest my cheek against his back.


We are eating a snack before he leaves. He will go to meet one of my metamours and I will go out dancing. He sits with his elbow resting on the table, and I move so my face is pressed against his clenched fist, my nose and lips slotting into the gaps between his knuckles.

My cock fits perfectly into your arse and your face fits perfectly against my fist, he says.

That is exactly the kind of thing you need never to say in front of most people, I say, as we crease up. Know your audience.

It is true though. We fit.