Sunday, 23 July 2017


When you're in the moment, a really good, juicy moment, it should be easy to shut out the rest of the world. It should at least be possible. Writing about that type of moment needs the same sort of focus. Recently, the real world has been clamouring for my attention to the extent that my focus, pretty much all of Alethea vanished. I hate letting her go, but sometimes...the rest of my life has to be more important.

Then I received an email notification of a book review for something I wrote a few years ago and it reminded me I enjoy writing, enjoy being Alethea as an escape. And this afternoon I have been able to leave life doing it's thing and hit the keyboard.

I think this might well be the start of something longer. I hope so. Someone caught in a moment. I'll worry about how sustainable that moment might be later.

And yes... there is a nod to the World Para-Athletics in there.


“Hey! Whatcha think you’re doing?”

I was pretty sure what she thought she was doing. Advancing towards me, the flirt in her eye now predatory and hard. Hand on my chest, pushing me back against the black stage curtain. She didn’t answer me and I realised this was another rule in the game. And for shit was I going to show myself up, admitting I was lost. Never read the fucking rules was the only rule I’d ever needed.

She was un-nerving, but the guy with the dark eyes and hard jaw, who hovered at the edge of my peripheral vision, he was just plain scary. Her nail found the gap between shirt buttons and ran teasingly down my chest and electric shivers burnt across my skin.

“Ungh!” Oh shit. Never did that sound come from my mouth, but man, her thigh was powerful against my junk and her lips moved against my jaw and fuck me if I was going to stop her. And if he wanted to watch, then, I’m down with that. I mean, I’m a fucking god on stilts and who wouldn’t want to watch me fuck.

Perhaps we could make this more private.

“You want to come to my hotel? I’ve got a room to myself and ….” Fucking dork. I’ll be telling them, telling her, that I travelled without my mum soon. Of course I fucking did! Score myself a hot cougar and I’m acting like a kid.

“Think you can handle that?” God, her voice was husky. Shouting for me on the track? Dick for brains, I showed her I could, moving her hand till my cock pressed eagerly against her palm. And she pressed back, tits smooshed against my ribs, rubbing sinuously, ‘til I let my eyes close.

Hot breath, roaming lips, teeth nipping my ear lobe and I’m humping her hand like that had become an event in itself. Roar of blood as deafening as the roar of a home crowd. “Come on then, baby.”  Come on anymore and I’d come in my pants and then…

And then the grip was tighter, surer. Another hand heavy on my shoulder. I scrunched my eyes tighter as thought keeping them closed could close off the other senses. But I could smell him. Expensive. Subtle. Cologne. Taller too, his nose nudging my temple, lips dry as they skimmed across my cheek towards her.

I heard them kiss, the breath and slap of skin. The feather of air across my lips as they kissed, pinned as they jacked me to the edge of insanity. I mean, that had to be why I hadn’t made my horror known. Why the moan that escaped me was all sex and no disgust.

His mouth turned on me, hard and demanding and the hand that rose to push him away clung to his shirt and the bunched bicep beneath. She whispered how hot we were and I preened at her praise even as I fought to hold my own in the kiss. A battle in teeth and tongue and lips. And that hand. Their hands. His fingers, long and knowledgeable, curled around my balls and dipping behind. Hers cupping the head just enough to play with the ridge as I rutted against her. Them.

Breaking for air seemed to be by some sort of mutual agreement and our hands slowed and relaxed. His forehead rested heavily against my hair, her face against my neck, their panted breaths hot and sweet against sweat dampened skin.

Opening my eyes, I was ready to laugh it off. Some sort of dare or challenge and fuck knows I never backed down from those. And shit, it wasn’t as though I’d hidden my appreciation of the slightly more experienced ladies from my friends. But this quiet backstage area was just as still and empty as it had been when she’d taken my hand and pulled me through the curtains. Just us. Three of us.

“So.” I cleared my throat to remove the pre-pubertal quiver. “We doing this shit?”

“You good?” His question was valid even though his thumb was tucked into my belt, fingers trailing against a hard-on as solid as my legs.

“Yeah, mate. Not quite what I was expecting, but…yeah… bring it on.”

I felt his smile twitch against my cheek.

“She’s not like…bait or something is she?”

She huffed and nipped at my throat “No, she isn’t… we’re a package deal or we can be single options not bait.”  

“Fair point.” To be honest my mind is so blown in this moment I don’t know what that means, but it’s all good.

“What she means is, you can say no to us, or me, if that’s what you want.”

My dick chose that moment to remind me with a dancing pulse towards his fingers, that, although this was not what I’d anticipated, there was more I wanted.

“No, mate. Like I said, I’m good if you are. Should I, like, order a taxi or…”

She gripped my jaw and turned my face to hers. “This is the big city. We can get a cab outside whenever you’re ready.”

My pride bristled a bit at that. Like a lot. I’ve travelled the world in the last 18 months and these sports awards are just the latest jaunt. And Brisbane is not exactly the sticks.

Then she dropped to her knees and my heart rate broke the safe training ceiling. “Whenever, you’re ready.”

Monday, 15 May 2017

The Contradiction

I don't imagine there is a person out there who can manage the stresses life throws at us all the time. I see acquaintances on twitter and through this blog who are being tossed in a sea of unfairness and demand. Much as I want to be able to knock out an interesting 500 words bi-weekly, sometimes the demands of having special children and a social care and education system who cannot deliver bespoke packages to complex needs, means that I can't. 

Sometimes I cannot even show love to the man who loves me and supports me because stress, worries and emotional fatigue destroy the most basic blocks of who we are:-our appetites, our energy and our safety and trust. 

So this is it. My demands of him verbalised. My demands so I can show him loving service as our relationship deserves. As he deserves. And that is the contradiction. 

This is the moment I need your most sensitive touch. Not the buzz of a toy or even the gentlest of fingers. I am not ready for physical. I am too worried to be present in my own body.

I need touch that goes beyond lover to love itself. The safety and security of being held. Time to allow the heat of your skin beneath mine, the reassurance of your steady heartbeat, the tickle of chest hair reawakening my senses, to pull me back from this space in my head to space where you can reach me.

I need you to wait for me. To know me and read me and wait for the moment you can demand anything from my body, however long that takes. Don’t let me wallow, but don’t let me drown.

I don’t need you to carry my burdens. I need you to strengthen me, so I can carry them.

I need your demand, because without it I am a shell, bumping along without proper connection to anything, washed in this endless tide of noise.

I need the offering of myself, which has been so ineffectual in solving anything today, to be something you value and find worthy.

I need you to coax something beautiful from me when I feel wrung out and empty.

Let me make you happy. Let something I do, something I am, be something special.

Feed me. Tend me. Restore me.

Then let me serve you. 

Tuesday, 2 May 2017

World Traveller

Before I get into my story, I need to say thank you to Marie for these prompts. As a total beginner, they give me the discipline to get writing and to be read.

My experience with law enforcement has unfortunately all been on the serious victim side so not really given my any material, but I hope this brush with another arm of the law is arresting enough.  

World traveller they call it in the high street. That casual look that fills me with envy at the airport. A selection of comfy, slung together textures and pale colours, slightly worn to show you’ve been here before.

I haven’t. Not alone. Not racing to get to you on the other side of the world because you’ve called and asked me to. But like everything else, I’m faking it, down to my cute little retro 60s hand luggage. My only luggage.

Lord, I want to be with you. It’s been weeks. Set up with Skype, we’ve skirted the line of international law with some of the things we’ve done on voip call, but nothing can replace the touch of another hand. Your touch.

Trying to look casual, I slip out of my boots and take the baggie of liquids from my inside pocket. Coat in another tray, I look at the blandly bored young man on the scanner and wonder just how many dildos and vibrators pass through his sight every day. To place the little retro case on the rollers is taking all my nerve. I assume an air of calm I definitely do not feel.

Stepping through the body scanner, the high-pitched whinge of the machine distracts me. I’ve prepared everything, and nothing about me should be bleeping right now.  Following instructions, I step back through and despite the inner fluster, I convince myself it is an anomaly. Deep breath, step forward and the scanner shrieks again. I can see my hand luggage piling up at the bottom of the rollers and I want to go retrieve it, but a strong hand guides me aside. Feet apart. Arms up. Hand scanner first, then pat down.

And I hate myself, but that was enough to start the descent. So desperate to see you, so focused on this sexy break we’d manufactured. The firm sweep of the back of a hand down the outside of my breast and I was tipped into my kinky place.

The escort took me to a paper room just feet from the busy queues, and then a second appeared with my jacket and case. Opened them up on the counter. Talking to me, my brain refused to register the words, as everything I had packed for you was laid out on a stark white camping table. Our favourite glass dildo, the plug I planned to prepare with as soon as I was checked in, the little velvet bag of clamps and the less dainty bottle of lube. Hot. Cold. Exposed. Excited.

A fraction of my brain stayed with them, but the rest of me was high and floating. I must have mumbled responses, or perhaps even delivered them with confidence, but that was somewhere else on the outside.

She was efficient. Business-like. Firm. The embodiment of my authoritarian crush. And through the haze, I opened the buttons on my carefully creased linen shirt, exposed the satin and lace creation I had chosen for you and hoped the flush across my breasts could be mistaken for embarrassment.

The room was thin and although brightly lit, shadows of the crowds outside added to the exposure. Her hands were warm, sweeping under my shirt, her chest brought to mine as she checked under the clasp and straps before tracing forward. Close enough to smell her shampoo. To imagine she was your handmaid.

I want to tell you her fingers sweeping my hot skin under the tight wiring of my new bra were humiliating. Embarrassing. That this exposure in near public was uncomfortable and frightening. That the final swirling sweep of palm over lace was some kind of final straw. But it wasn’t. It was the door fantasies as yet unexplored and a window in time back to lovers of a more feminine flavour.

The hand scanner again and once more the angry beeping. Just a Marks and Spencer’ bra she says, and bids me to fasten my shirt. I tuck myself away, my case is repacked and the roar of the busy airport returns in full force.

She sends me on my way and when I rush to the cool quiet of the ladies’ room to repair my blush, I am both bright eyed and distant to my own mirrored gaze.

World traveller. Experienced, but searching for more. Here, on my way to you, a flash of the old in her certain hands and the exposure of those thin paper walls I have travelled a few more miles and found a place I might need to explore some more. With you next time.

Sunday, 30 April 2017


I was feeling really good. Molly had recommended a piece of my writing in elust 93 and nothing new was going wrong at home. But my hands were really uncomfortable, as if I'd punched something. Quick trip to the no typing. With a new blog this felt like a bit of a disaster, but I figured I was best to do as told. Really I know I should have written a post to explain, but with such a new blog I didn't know what to say.
But my hands didn't get better. They ached. Then the swelling began. There are lots of new ideas spilling round in my head about the complete helplessness of having your hands turn against you. Not just useless, but painful. 
It looks like arthritis. Checks are being done and for now the flare up is under control enough to type.
Tonight's post is a gentle one to ease me back in. This couple have been with me for a long time, and when I need to get writing I turn to them. I turn to him when I need shelter. Turn to her when I want to celebrate the power of touch to put things back together. They are dancing...neither quite sure of the steps. Trying hard to keep this about their physical desires and needs and not about their rather battered hearts. But then I habitually write

The glow from the streetlights couldn’t hide how pale and tired she was. He wanted to bring her in to his arms, but instead he stepped back to allow her into his home. She’d started talking, something about traffic, and had thrown her sports bag and yoga mat casually against the wall. She was all over the place tonight.

Silence fell as she perched on the end of his sofa. He wished this room looked less like the drawing room of an elderly maiden aunt, but before this, whatever this was, it had only been used when his mother or Shannon’s came to visit. He’d always thought it would turn into a cosy space to relax when they knocked through… and he was as off kilter as she was this evening. He took a deep breath and let it escape slowly, deliberately, blowing out till he felt his stomach muscles tighten and holding back on the reflex to breathe took effort.

Her eyes darted nervously from his chair to the window, his knees to the table, before settling on the tea tray. The ritual. He poured for her, and then for himself. Lemon and ginger this evening. He wanted her hydrated and calm before they went upstairs. When she became still and silent like this, it wasn’t the peace he wanted for her, it was a rigidity. Deliberately freezing as though that would render her invisible.

They didn’t speak as they sipped their drinks. He watched her, read her and didn’t need words to know this had been one shitty week. Did she even notice him, he wondered. Everything they did in these sessions was designed to keep the focus on her and for that, his routine began a clear hour before she was due to arrive. There was nothing domestic to distract, no post by the door, no smell of his evening meal. He was showered and dressed for her and he took that time to shed the day, to shed the outside and be ready for her.
No-one held her but him. He suspected very few even physically touched her in the course of her week. Not even Sam. Not with any deliberate intention to give her pleasure, anyway. It was a monogamous relationship of sorts, as no-one touched him either. Just her. And just here. Only with the pressure of her body against his. And he pretended that the awareness of that didn’t cut and sting.

He listened to each creaking tread as she followed him to the back bedroom, wishing he was leading her to bed. To lay her body over his as a living blanket, her scent mingling with his, her soft breasts and stomach cushions of warmth against his leanness. To wrap his arms around her and feel her sleep.

“I don’t think I can do this.” The words rushed out like vomit. He ignored them and pulled the blinds closed, shutting out the strange red night of the town. He started the slow tick of the metronome, set at the pace of his heartbeat, the rhythm of their time.

She dropped to her knees on the sports mat, the only furniture in the room. 

Monday, 24 April 2017

eLUST 93

Elust 93 

Photo courtesy of Aurora Glory

Welcome to Elust 93

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #94 Start with the rules, come back May 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Erotic Fiction

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships


Erotic Non-Fiction


Body Talk and Sexual Health


The Editor-in-Chief of Elust and better known to the rest of the world as Mollyxxx



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Wednesday, 12 April 2017 take on the debate about exclusion

My twitter feed has been buzzing recently with discussions about trans-exclusionary feminism. Once upon a time, I studied similar things at University, and this debate has stoked my analytical engine. Unwise as it may be to walk into these shark-infested waters, I want to explain my thinking, not least as a method of clarifying the ideas in my own internal debate.

I am not a feminist. In fact there are very few “ist”  or "ism" words I do subscribe to. That is not to say I disagree with the broad aims of the dictionary definition of feminism, “to define and advance political, economic, personal, and social rights for women.” but that I struggle with identifying with any ill-defined team in society. There is too much scope, too much opportunity for factionalism and misrepresentation of ideas.

Some of the women who speak in the debate, come from a historical and social viewpoint of fighting within the developed world for the ability to soar in whatever intellectual or employment based field they want, when this was not the case. I tend to think of them as glass ceiling feminists. Within the context of their experiences and their fight, I can understand they do not associate their struggle with that of someone who has an established social standing as a man and then transitions to female, without losing, in their perception, status. (In case you've been asleep under a bush I'm alluding to Jenni Murray and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie )

My personal experience of this is a mtf post-surgery family member. Work status was established as a male and was protected by law when they transitioned, and working in a liberally minded field, being trans did to a certain extent give a level of kudos. That they have transitioned has not significantly altered their lives in the areas that these feminists consider to be their struggle. Maternity rights, pension rights, access to training has not been an issue for a late onset transitioner. They have not had physically feminine issues such as feminine cancers and menstruation and avoidance of pregnancy to deal with, nor have they adopted a traditionally feminine role within society as a main care-giver in a family. Perhaps this is the experience trans-exclusionary feminists have in their experience? Yes, they have struggled with their own identity and in many other ways,-access to funding and transition health care, familial and friendship acceptance, legal and societal acceptance, but these are not directly matching the experience of the majority of cis-gendered women of the same age educational and social status (et al). 

Others who speak in this debate have a practical understanding of the difficulties relating to trans individuals and add this experience to their understanding of feminism. In this sense perhaps feminism becomes less about personal experiences of being female and of being perceived to be female and more about all sectors of the community having equal social and political access as men of privilege? Feminism becomes about the potential negative experience of the individual due to the perception of others that they are female: less about your self definition and more about the eye of the beholder.

There are many equality based difficulties in the world today that are key for people with either female physiognomy or female identification. Access to sanitary products and appropriate safe places to toilet as a broad sweep issue is world-wide, from rules on trans-peoples’ bathrooms in schools in the US, to poor girls in major first world cities lacking sanitary products, to girls shut away as unclean during the days of their periods, to women raped when they go out to the fields to defecate. This affects mainly women, so could be seen as a feminist issue, but equally, I think it would be stupid to think there are not boys raped in the fields, and non-continent boys unable to attend school because of a lack of hygiene products around the world.

There are problems in work places, from the boss that thinks it is ok to use derogatory terms or sexist humour, to lack of opportunities for advancement- the traditional glass ceiling elements- that still exist, to the problems caused by the intersection of working women with societal care needs, including children and parents, which still falls overwhelmingly on women. However, men who have to take on this role are also discriminated against. Is a son taking care of his parents not also the potential butt of discrimination at work, or the man who has taken a career break to be with his children going to be seen as having a lack of workplace drive? I am certain a number of female bosses exist who are derogatory about their male employees for perceived male weaknesses,-jokes about inability to multitask being the first thing that comes to mind. 

I am a woman who employs male carers for my male children. This is questioned constantly, with the impression from certain female professionals that men working in care must be paedophiles. Are female carers questioned in this way? And I am a professional who has given up work to raise my children. I identify in my brain as a professional, but society sees me as a stay at home mum. Equally sometimes my carers see the housework as only my domain, yet I am considerably better qualified at the hands-on teaching of my children than they are. I hate having to use gender as a way of judging or explaining these behaviours, but it is used as a defining factor all the time mainly as a pre-conception.

I guess the best definition for me would be intersectional feminist, but I still shy away from that. It is still a way of separating people into boxes and simplifying their experiences. I cannot criticise the role and position of glass ceiling feminists as I did not have to face the difficulties they did in the society and time frame they lived through. Nor can I agree with them that trans-people do not suffer from some or all of the same battles as cis-gendered females who identify as female.

I am fortunate to have autism which is another "ism" which is poorly defined outside the medical community (and sometimes even within it). In this field of reference, for me, it means socially constructed boundaries such as gender and class have less importance and less visibility for me than the definition of people as individuals. I find the ideas perhaps easier to ignore or discount than some more neuro-typical people, but I am not going to hold that against them! Equally, just because someone is autistic, this might not be their experience of gender. 

I choose to be positively non discriminatory. Everyone faces their own personal journey from a starting point they did not choose, or provide reason to deserve. Where I can, given my limited understanding of each person’s situation, I aim to be a positive influence on their life and their personal development and happiness. I hope everyone finds a way to be happy in their own skin and that they are surrounded (not necessarily solely physically) by people who are kind and empathetic about their experience. I aim to make positive contributions to the lives of others to help further equality and social justice regardless of gender, sexuality, colour or beliefs.

Perhaps it is time to ditch "ism" ideology and start to treat other human beings well simply because it is a kind thing to do?

Sunday, 9 April 2017


This week's Wicked Wednesday theme has been blessedly preceded by a solid five days of glorious sunshine and we have been beavering away preparing our little patch of land. We wait impatient through March every year for the night time temperature to rise enough to mean we can fill the spa pool. A massive indulgence a few years ago, it is a lifeline for us as a place of relaxation in the evening, and we often use it nightly into November. It isn't just the warm water, although that is lovely, but it is it's placement. Our Garden.


My home is full of messy, exuberant life. The living room is lego filled, the dining room a classroom and office, the kitchen feeds up to eight several times a day. Technology and screens beep and buzz and spew blue light. Despite our best efforts, bedrooms are multipurpose spaces and squeezed out is space for our intimacy. But we do not accept that. We’ve made space. Hidden it in plain sight, just for us.

The British may be a nation of gardeners, but in these first truly warm days of spring we have worked on ours with passion. Trees are pruned and pinned to espalier our boundary fences, sweet peas, honeysuckle, jasmine and roses tended and fed. Pale silver leaves flutter high on airy branches, deceiving the eye without casting shadow. Our bower is created.

Careful gardening has grown leafy walls between us and our neighbours’ windows. Night scented flowers make the twilight world heavy with perfume. The stillness, the utter peace of the garden at night gives us space to relax and safely be ourselves.

Giggling like school children we shed our clothes in the kitchen and then leave the chaos behind for the moon-kissed night, stripped of our expectations of each other we are just us, man and woman, Adam and Eve. Breeze swirls and bats swoop low over the cushions and blankets or steaming water where we lie. We touch.

Here, there is time and space for touch. Skin to skin we apologise and forgive, sustain and affirm, feed and be fed without a word spoken. Brick warmed air kisses our nakedness and ruffles our hair. The blanket of darkness pierced by moon-white brilliance gives tired limbs an ethereal beauty. The peace breathes life and we channel it into each other.

Arousal is slow and easy because here we can be unhurried and unharried. Just us. Bodies and minds re-synchronising internally and with each other. An hour or two or who knows, because time is irrelevant. This is rest and restoration.

Creatures come and go without heeding us. The snuffling hedgehog and screaming foxes give us more freedom, covering for us when pulses pound with heat and need and we shatter our own silence. Mostly though, we are silent, an escape from the noise of life and in deference to the dog-walkers on the pavement feet from our hideaway.

We are not ashamed. Bodies pressed together in our own sliver of the universe, part of its organic synergy. We watch the stars and they watch us and we are all where we need to be.

Creeping up to bed, before the first child wakes and searches out an intimacy of their own between our bodies, we have feasted on the wonder of nature. Replete and whole, we believe we can sustain our family through whatever imperfections and challenges the day brings.

For all the talk about “me” time, we have created a physical and mental space where “us” is the central theme. When we enjoy and tend it in the daytime, we are preparing it for each other, even as it brings joy in other ways. The hub of our home. Our garden.