Tuesday, 13 March 2018

Wave Hello

This week I've dusted off my blog and twitter feed and have been saying hi again to people I met at Eroticon last year. And being a bit more public facing, one or two friends I have known for a little bit longer have noticed me and got in touch for the first time in ages. 

Three things happened. 

First, I deliberately made some time, with the altruistic support of my lovely man, to think dirty thoughts. That hasn't happened in a "making time for myself" way in a little while. Pretty sure I'll blush at our meeting later in the week when the social worker asks me if I've been making some "me time" this month. 

Next, the wonderful Wicked Wednesday theme is games... and the prompt picture had me thinking more board games than mind-fuck games, although I am sure there will be wonderful stories about both types submitted and I look forward to reading them all. 


Then a friend waved. 

It started last Tuesday when you waved to me on Messenger.

I waved back.

Sam waved back.

Home for the weekend with Lilly and the kids, we meet at the Harvester so they can run off some steam. Eight years since we could be in the same place at the same time.  Lilly looks great. The kids have grown. Your parents are still well.

Even here, a place not even built then, I am 20 years ago and taking you with me. Sam and Lilly talk about something they watch on the TV. My skin is prickling with your nearness and your eyes are black with memories.

A news program crawls across a 60 inch screen above our table but all I am aware of are your nails scoring down my back as I lie across your hard bed in the Uni dorms. First man to mark me. I am so glad you shared that with me.

Sam knows and his hand creeps to my thigh beneath the table. Something small. My tell.  But he carries on talking as though nothing important is happening.

You know too and turn the conversation back to an innocent remembrance. A birthday playing card games. But it is not innocent, is it? We are both thinking about what happened an hour later when your friends asked me to be your birthday present. When they begged me to blow you in your parent’s sitting room. Plied me with vodka-cokes as though I would need them and forgetting I could drink you all under the table.

We played Baccarat, the game we taught ourselves to play so we could be cool like James Bond. Our friends made excuses to leave and I turned the flirt on them. Asked them to stay. Dealt another hand of cards. Loosened more clothing. Eyes widening and chests tightening as I played the role they thought they’d chosen. I was so fucking ready for you to use me. For them to watch.

They thought I was a vamp. Thought I was seducing you. Didn’t know we were both more than aware of the other. That even as innocent as we were, I knew you.

My skin is prickling against my bra. I don’t see them anymore, our friends from Physics class. Just you. When you are home. Or when I am.

I want to show you my new piercings, hiding, shifting behind the lace. But my body belongs to Sam, reclaimed for him post children. This isn’t the body we shared.

You drift into the conversation with the others and I stay on my knees on the crimson Wilton in your mother’s best sitting room. Feel your cock choking me, balls hairy against my chin as I pushed myself to swallow your length. The glorious freedom of four pairs of eyes watching me as heady as knowing I could get you off. The slick wet sound as one of them pumped their own dick and I matched their pace with my mouth, streams of spit dribbling from lips stretched wide and tight as I struggled to breathe and swallow and suck. The wonder as you gave in and fucked my face, holding my hair tightly as you bucked and took my mouth.

Messy and innocent and raw. Pumping bitter and thick into my throat as I tried to swallow like Cosmo said I should. The ache in my jaw. The damp cloth someone brought me so I could mop up my drool. Redoing my make up in the tiny loo under the stairs and wondering why I seemed so wet. Down there.

I am wet now. In the noisy pub with the scalding lasagne and our seven children running wild. You are shifting in your seat. Who we are with Sam and with Lilly began with those games.

Sam’s fingers dig knowingly into my inner thigh. He has been looking forward to this meal all week. Lilly smiles and kisses you softly.

The kids pile back to the table and we eat ice cream sundaes and talk about their upcoming exams. Watch as your eldest and mine dance with words and glances as we did at their age.

We are not now what we were then. I can’t call you my best friend and you can’t just ring me up for a game or to test a theory in a lab or a bed of our choice.  

But I love you. For who you are and who you were.

I know Lilly reads my blog. Sam wonders if she plays cards? 

Friday, 9 March 2018

Meet and greet me

In less than one week's time I will be on the threshold of Eroticon 2018. My hairdresser is booked, I've finally found some boots that fit and a friend of mine who finds it very funny that she's worked out the buttons to my submissive side told me I should wear more red... spot me and see if I've resisted the programming. 


Last year was my first time out in public as being me. All of me, not just the "nice and acceptable for the school run" parts. I thought I would dissolve like a vampire in the daylight, or that, worse still, I might be called out for not being a blogger or writer as I only had a handful of scribblings under my belt. Instead, I ended up chatting to Rose and Fred among others, and feeling like a might just be in the right place. I still ended up talking about my kids over lunch with other people who equally alternated their conversation between their kids and the sex toy raffle prizes... as though this was the most natural thing in the world. It just felt great to be in like-minded company. 

Name (and Twitter if you have one)
Alethea Hunt…. Allie in person,  @aletheaalone on twitter.

What are you most looking forward to about Eroticon 2018?
Being with the tribe. It will be a bit daunting walking in on the Friday night, because I’m naturally anxious, but after last year I know you are a safe space and plausibly the most accepting group of people I’ve met. There is not a lot of time for the me that plays out at Eroticon in the rest of my life, this last six months virtually none at all, so I am looking forward to a reawakening. Not to mention meeting up with people I met last year…and having the nerve to start conversations with new people.
The talks look great. Free playtime at the end of Saturday a little terrifying. Hopefully by then I will have relaxed a little... if not, someone grab me and make me join in. 

We are creating a play list of songs for the Friday Night Meet and Greet. Nominate one song that you would like us to add to the play list and tell us why you picked that song
Some really good songs are already there… Bad things that @sexwithrose has picked is a favourite, Nick Cave’s voice strokes my skin into goose bumps and @_Masterseye has picked The Ship Song, which has me happily burning bridges…both lovely growling voices… Shit. This is a hard one. Music was how I realised perhaps the whole boys and girls story I’d grown up with was missing some of the potential. From Nights in White Satin (Moody Blues) (Ina Morata got that one) via Lay Lady Lay (Dylan) through to seeing Brian Molko (Placebo) in a dress and eyeliner and thinking “wow”… mainly because “fuck me” wasn’t in my vocabulary yet. Still thinking…

…the entire soundtrack of my 1980s would have pounded through the speakers at Heaven… not that I had any idea of the themes behind the songs...just the energy and excitement.

…Ballad of Barry and Freda by Victoria Wood? First time I remember it being acknowledged that women had an interest in sex beyond finding a man and having children with him. And that sex could be fun. 

What’s the first career you dreamed of having as a kid?
Don’t think I ever really dreamed like that. Maybe my ambition was never to go to work? I think I realised I liked making people happy, so generally I went along with what people suggested for me. However, my mum quotes my first infant school teacher as saying word to the effect of “If you want something doing, ask someone else. If you want a book writing about it, ask Allie,” I guess writing about stuff might always have been on the cards. I think I wanted to make the world a better place but was never sure how to do it.

Weirdest place you’ve ever gotten up to mischief (define ‘mischief’ however you like…)
My first kiss was topless in the woods at a local music festival…various escapades in muddy fields followed as I was a scout and so a muddy field was the usual parent free venue. A camper van… loved that as then we could have a cup of tea afterwards…loads of occasions in the open air, but nothing really weird in terms of places… my sister’s bedroom on a visit to her at Uni… but that was only weird the next morning when mum brought up cups of tea and there were three of us in the bed. It was ok though… she went back down and got one for Ed...
When I was young I didn’t consider myself adventurous… but when I look back, I didn’t do too badly. Then the kids came along and the biggest game for myself and the lovely Mr is trying to have sex in silence. Or without falling asleep.

Tell us two truths and a lie about yourself
Bloody Hell, this is hard…
I have three cats, Dow, Fritz and Mouse.
I am autistic and lying freaks me out.
I’ve eaten chips and cheese with Jay Kay from Jamiroquai

Complete the sentence: I want…

…my kids to grow up in a society where we don’t define people by things we shouldn’t be and can’t be but by an acceptance that, whilst respecting others’ bodies and freedoms, we should be free to shape our own story without guilt or shame about our roots, our sexualities, our gender(s) or our desires. 

Thursday, 8 March 2018

It's been a while

It's been a while.

Things came up and made me forget that I liked to hang out here. 

That it made me feel like me.

Going to Eroticon 2018 in a week or so. So I went back to places I felt safe to have a little explore. Now I've missed the deadline for this week, but this is a Wicked Wednesday prompt...because that has always felt like a good place to start. 


Peruvian Mocha Limu. Dark and dirty with a hidden sweetness. Just bitter enough to be challenging, smooth enough to drink more than one cup.

An expresso quickie to set you off with a bang. A long latte with caramel syrup wrapping me up like a feather duvet.

I do have moments of coffee infidelity.

Sometimes I crave a good hard Javan hand roast.  

It’s all about finding the right coffee for you and more than that, its mixing it the right way. Taking care and time over the preparation and not just accepting what someone else thought you might want to drink. Asking for what you want.

Good coffee though, takes effort. I’d stopped requesting coffee. Stopped making it for myself. There was never really time and you don’t die from a lack of coffee.

The cafetiere had gone back in the cupboard. The special cups were put away out of reach. I didn’t bother. And I didn’t miss it. After all I had tea.

I’m not knocking tea. Socially, I feel it’s easier just to go along with it when it’s offered. It’s warm and wet and will do.

But it’s not something I love.

I don’t wake up in the morning craving a cup of tea. And I’d forgotten how good coffee could be.

Until today.

I checked twitter for the first time in months and there was Rebel, daring me to think about coffee.

And I remembered the smoky power charging through my veins, making my heart beat that little bit faster, my mouth water for the taste.

The matt glory of the beans. The fullness of the aroma as they are ground, changing with an exciting moist earthiness through brewing. I can smell the bitter cocoa promise hidden in the depths. Chase it.

I want to drink it raw. Black. Powerful. Scalding. Want to drown in a cream filled mug topped with foam and crunchy brown sugar.

All of it.


It’s scary. Suddenly remembering means I had forgotten. De-prioritised.

I don’t want that.

I create a space for the cafetiere on the counter top. Move the cups down a shelf so I can see them.

Let the scent tease through the house.

In case anyone else needs reminding they like coffee too. 

Wednesday, 6 September 2017

After the storm

This week's Wicked Wednesday has proven to be a challenge. I don't do eye-contact. With anyone other than my children, even eye to face contact is only the product of lots of thought and self conditioning. And only because neuro-typical people expect it. It probably doesn't occur to none autistics, that in some people's universes, you are the weird ones!

Several otherwise strong ideas came and bit the dust. My characters do make eye contact sometimes. Usually if they need something to cling to while being ravished! There was the temptation to go the Dirty Dancing route as eye contact in a dance is something I could lean on. 

This is the opposite. I'd started writing...just the first impressions of anger...at the weekend, because I'd thought to write through an anger attack,- a meltdown,- to see if it helped. To verbalise all of the fragmentary parts and physicality of it all, because when it is gone, it is gone and explaining it to someone else, whether counselor or loved one, is difficult. 

We stay strong and I don't know how we do it. I asked my husband who he would like to be in my writing,- he said Omega Delta- the difference in the end. And that is what he is. The difference between me being a refugee between war zones in my own head and a functioning parent in difficult circumstances. 

Never able to eye-fuck like Baby and Johnny, for me it is something I don't miss and I have to trust when he says it isn't important in our communication. So this story, born of a mix of real stress and fiction is probably quite personal because, in this case, I can't put myself in another person and imagine what the character is getting from the experience. 

I’m angry.

Violently, chemically, unsettled. Blood poisoned with epinephrine is overwhelming my reactions. Restless muscles. Aching joints.

And through this flood, my otherwise overwhelmed voice of quiet searches for clues and triggers, because nothing has happened. Nothing.

Nothing that would cause this much anger in a … in a …

I want to say “real person”. “Rational person.” Hateful phrases that feed the anger and completely negate everything I know about myself. Make me less.  

The quiet voice speaks. At least I’m not… I stop myself because for some people experiencing this without a trigger would be normal too. And is not their fault either.

There is so much going on. Grief. Trauma. Stress. Autism. I let the quiet voice pick it all apart and put the pieces back in their rightful places, but it doesn’t actually fix anything. Doesn’t reduce the physical reactions. Dim the swirling trip of off-kilter brightness that throws my balance and burns my throat with bile. Staunch the grey black wave of sadness that washes cold through the ashes of anger, tightening my skin into goose-flesh and shivering through tense muscles.

Everything about me is screaming to be left alone. If my voice had not deserted me I would be screaming in truth. Every sound is pain, the muted colours and light of my room still pursue me with violence. I cannot bear to see, let alone look for you. Too exhausted, I crawl to my bed.

Found, you do not come to me with a gentleness I can fight. Straddling my body, you lay as much of your weight as I can take down the length of me, legs trapping mine, chest cupped by the small of my back. Your head on my shoulders.

The exhaustion wars with anger and even in my wrung-out state, I want to fight more. Want to buck your weight clear, be alone in body as I am in mind, trapped in this battle state. Sensing this, through my tiny impatient twitches, you smother me more, arms moving to pin, more weight pushing me under.

The quiet voice has heard you, felt you, and is clinging to your breathing pattern, deliberately regular and seemingly relaxed. Guilt is the new tsunami, welling deep and soaking through me physically and pushing hot tears into the pillow. It rips you bare when I am like this. Helpless to stop it, we both have to take the beating, each from the other. Stoic in our love: rampaging in our weakness.

We lie, while lights dim to fragmented twilight and at some point, your protective stance becomes a spooned embrace. The wildness is subdued and humanity returns with uncertain footsteps as a refugee returns to a shattered landscape, searching for familiar landmarks through the carnage. The warmth of your skin. Breath against my nape. Heartbeats.

More in tune with me than I am with myself, you sense when I am ready. Hands that calmed become fingers that explore. Entrapped becomes possessed. Body soft and pliant and available.

With vampire-soft kisses you refuel from my body. Clothes pushed aside tangle around my docile limbs.

Our coupling is just that, quiet and passionless like pale watery skies after a storm. In that peace, we can find each other. Rebuild. An apology and a promise.

Darkness blesses us with sleep and space. We drift apart seek each other out like flotsam on the tide. Our bodies turn, clothes are shed and succor taken from night lit mating. I push you to take from me as selfishly as I took from you. Balance, not guilt, driving my needs. Our animal selves lick their wounds and retreat. 

Stirring with the first light, I capture fresh images of your face. The pale grey at your temples and in the scruff of your stubble. The lines creeping, even in sleep, at the corner of your eyes. The picture I hold of you in my heart is made of such fragments as these. Your weight. Your breath. The gold and hazel flecks in your eyes shimmering as they open and focus, the pupil’s wild expansion and contraction as you come into conscious thought. Folds in your eyelids and long soft strawberry blonde lashes.

I linger too long, and as your keen eyes open, my gaze strikes away, like a stone skimming a lake. Gathering me to the crook of your neck, we hold each other and you kiss my salt-glazed face.  We are ok.

We start another day. 

Sunday, 3 September 2017

Sinful Sunday: playing with company

Sinful Sunday

As the title of my blog suggests, writing is something I do when I'm on my own. 

Sinful Sunday might well turn out to be something I participate in to celebrate not being on my own. 

Wednesday, 30 August 2017

She wears no knickers

I love history, and where history and fashion meet to tell the story of women and religion and prudery I made a decision and gave up knickers. It was either that or trying to find something to stretch comfortably around nine months of pregnancy. 

I think, being honest it was the latter, but it is the former that has saved me from running back to Marks and Sparks and replacing my sensible cover-alls because they don't add anything to my life other than to the washing pile. They don't make me more modest. I haven't worn a knee length or shorter skirt in years. I don't climb out of cars with my knees akimbo. Like ladies from a bygone age I am perfectly "ladylike" without pants. 

But it is more than that. I feel in touch with myself (no puns intended even if it is KOTW). My body is sexual when I like. Functional when I like. I don't wear a sign on the outside in the form of lace and satin or granny pants to say what I am and when. I am not ashamed or overly proud, not focussed on sex or hiding myself away. 

Like everyone else I am naked beneath my clothes. 

And sometimes....sometimes it gives me a naughty little smile because I know I am maybe just that little more naked than the next girl. 

She wears no knickers beneath her wedding dress. I know it as surely as the groom and damn it if my brain had no idea what to do with that thought. Her colours are firmly pinned to his mast. Her cream on his dick. Good on him.

It doesn’t mean I can’t remember the feel of her unfettered arse through a summer dress. Coarse fabric dragging against peach-skin soft skin. The imagined heat and scent of her on the air, as though a tiny scrap of cotton and lace could have truly made a difference.

Women surround me in dresses designed to entice and she, shrouded in ivory from shoulder to floor is still the one who raises my pulse. I wonder if they would utter “she has no shame” if they knew. She has no shame and needs no shame. She is herself. Glorious. Unbound. Free.

Neatly shaved pussies hiding behind sexy lingerie in a peek-a-boo of show and tell above sharp heels and painted toes. Prizes, if I coax and beg. Part of a language, a bargain. Dressed to enhance their worth. But her generous cunt, given without conditions, naked and wanton made me feel like I was something to her. Alive and valued and vital.

I wonder if I told her that. Wonder if it will spill as we drunkenly circle the floor this evening in time honoured tradition before moshing our way through Bohemian Rhapsody. That she spoiled me and I’m sorry that I never told her.

His hand smooths over the silk draped curves as he greets her, and they share a smile laced with knowledge. Carnal. Intimate. A smile laced with promise.

She wears no knickers beneath her wedding dress and I let her go.

Tuesday, 29 August 2017

Fresh Ink

Celebrity. So many options. Open doors. 

And some firmly closed. It will take a brave man...perhaps I'll write his story one day.

The new tattoo looked good. The font impressive and still clear enough to read every syllable. He was so glad he’d kept his skin clear, waiting for this chance. This message.

The word he’d hated when being Beckham was all important. Couldn’t just be mid-field. Had to be good on the left, the right, in fucking defence. But then the word that had defined his career and now it would define him. He wasn’t a number. Wasn’t a position. Ask any fucking pundit. Ask his first crush. This was what he was in every sense of the word.

The crap he’d taken to get here. Ten years since he’d debuted for the first team. Eight since his first cap. Fifteen years of saying and doing nothing. Of planning. Of silence and loneliness in the middle of a crowd of seventy five thousand.

It wasn’t just the word. It could easily be interpreted as just that. A homage to a glorious career, now entering the closing chapters. Not quite at the Come Dancing stage, but definitely the quiet negotiations for a final three years at the top, then a quiet trip to LA or the JFL or wherever was paying the money by then. Or perhaps not.

It was the placement. Slung low across his stomach, just kissable above the flat elastic of his Versace skivvies. His stylist had loved it when he brought up the idea at the shoot last month. The script chosen to complement a brand he knew would stay with him.

The call had come through late last night. Probably seconds after a flustered HR girl had seen the proofs from the latest magazine shoot. A week to the pre-season camp. Transfer window still open.

No club manager got upset about new ink, which meant he knew what it meant.

No real person lost their job over a non-visible tattoo.

No footballer should be afraid of losing thousands of fans, or having shirts burnt or letter peeled. Of tweets or newspapers or chants from the terraces. And he wasn’t. Not afraid anymore.

He wouldn’t lose his job. Wouldn’t be forced into a transfer. The interviews were lined up. His team was fully onside with Attitude on speed dial.

Still alone though. He would still be alone bar a quick, quiet, well-paid fuck. But perhaps there would be a proper opportunity now. After all, he was not as alone now as when he first planned this.

Fifteen fucking years to get here. From the moment he first knew the word fit.

Waiting for Lions on his shirt. To roar and make men proud. To be someone people respected.

Now he was in a position to respect himself.