The Spy Who Loved Me

The train journey I took coming back from London was the inspiration for this, my latest post. It was quite possibly the most entertaining train journey I have ever had in my life. In my carriage there was a guy loudly glued to his mobile. As the train whizzed along its tracks I was gripped as the show unfolded. His audience, we, his fellow passengers, got to know this guy a great deal better than we would have liked to. We knew who his friends were, who owed him money, what he was going to do if these people didn’t pay up, how much the ‘robbing thieving train company’ had charged him for his ticket and who his twenty bags were destined for. There were two posh lads sat to the other side of me, getting merry on mini cans of gin and tonic. They kindly were offering to share their cashew nuts with me. They looked shocked by the behaviour of this guy, expressed disgust that someone could discuss their drug deals so openly. I thought you haven’t lived boys, you really haven’t.


Now the twenty bag guy was entertainment enough, not least when the conductor came and he couldn’t produce his ticket, the one he had told all his friends on the phone and everyone in the carriage had cost him 133 quid. The conductor said if he didn’t produce his ticket he would have to get off at the next stop. The rants of ‘I've fucking paid!’ gave way, in the end, to tears, the sensitive side of our drug dealer displayed. Tears that only subsided when his ticket DID actually turn up, to the amazement of all, in the refreshment car. He’d dropped it whilst stocking up on cans of Stella.


Now this, as I said, was entertainment enough for me but in my carriage there was another source. There was a girl equally attached and loud on her mobile as twenty bag guy. I couldn’t help but over hear snippets of her conversation. The one snippet that got me was when she was slagging off one ‘friend’ to another.


‘You’d think with her being so fat she’d have bigger tits’ She said.


I thought I’ve heard the lot now. This girl was herself fat. Not overweight. Fat. This was a fatty abusing, by proxy, another fatty. Just to add to the comedy this fat girl proceeded to describe herself to someone down her phone as ‘an individual’. ‘An artist’ no less. I was almost pissing myself, taking the piss artist more like it I thought. Yeah right love, you are clearly an individual, plainly an artist as you sit in your standardized Goth, Emo, whatever you want to call it, uniform. You’re so right my dear, I’ve never before seen a fat girl in a crushed velvet dress, black tights, Doc Martens, bobbed black flat as a pancake hair who has gone to town with black eye liner. No your right love, never seen that before. I mean pretentious, nasty, a stereotype; you have clearly got it made.


Now I wouldn’t want anyone to think I told that story to take the piss out of the girl because she is fat. What I am mocking is that whilst no one should pick on anyone because of their size, as a fat person she is the last person who should be picking fault with how much someone else weighs, their tits or lack thereof. When I was fat I wouldn’t have dreamt about doing such a thing, I would not have had the cheek. And yes, I have been fat in my life. At my heaviest I tipped the scales at 13 stone and wore size 14 clothes. Prior to becoming overweight I had been super slim, size 6 clothes slipped on with ease. My weight was something I never really thought about, I couldn’t have told you what I weighed to the nearest stone let alone pound. I didn’t diet. For me, it was what it was. I was envy of many of my female friends who saw I could eat what I wanted and never appeared to gain a pound. I remember one occasion I rocked up our then local in my first pair of expensive jeans (there have been many since) and the mouth of one of my friends just dropped. She declared she wished she looked that good in jeans as she slapped my arse. They and I all concluded that I must have a super metabolism. However the truth of the matter was that because my family circumstances were so bad I wasn’t eating much of anything. I think the real truth was that during my teenage years I wasn’t too keen on living and as a consequence I wasn’t too keen on putting the fuel into my body that would keep me alive. Anyone can eat what they want if they don’t really want to eat very much of anything.


However, when I left home and became much happier, not having the shit kicked out of you does tend to improve one’s mood, a desire to eat took a hold of me with a vengeance. And eat I did. Pasties for breakfast, the same for lunch but this time with the addition of a chocolate muffin and at least one family size bag of sweets. Tea always came from the takeaway, kebabs, chips, sweet and sour pork, fried rice, lemon chicken, whatever I fancied that day but always followed by a huge slab of chocolate cake and cream. After four months of binge eating I woke up in a body I didn’t recognise. I lived in track suit bottoms because they were the only thing that fitted and, unwilling for a time, to confront what I had done to myself I refused to buy clothes that would fit. Bath times were the worse, during the day I could avoid mirrors and looked straight ahead as I pasted shop fronts, careful to avoid catching a glimpse of my reflection in their glass. I’d stay indoors, bury my head in books, and avoid human contact as much as possible. But at bath times, lying naked in the warm soapy water that was the one place I couldn’t run from the truth, the one place when I couldn’t hid from reality. The place where I cried. I was fat, fat, fat. I had a body I felt disconnected to, one that was someone else’s, one that didn’t belong to me, couldn’t possibly be mine. But it was. And I had done it to myself.


The turning point came when; tired of grey, washed out, worn out track suit bottoms I braved the shops in a bid to buy a pair of jeans. I landed in TK Maxx. I picked up a pair of Tommy Hilfiger jeans and because they looked huge I didn’t try them on. There really wasn’t any need. I wasn’t buying them to look good. I knew they were not magic jeans, that no clothes, nothing I did with my hair or makeup was going to make a difference. But I did have one expectation, that they would at least fit. They did not. That shocked me. As I stood in my bedroom, these clown pants squeezed somewhere around my thighs the horror that they would not do up hit me hard. I froze. This was bad and what’s more it had to change.


Now I don’t want anyone to misunderstand me, I am not attempting to bash girls who are bigger. Some girls do look great at a size 14, 16 even. Some girls end up with a Nigella Lawson -curves in all the right places- sexy silhouette complete with a naughty glint in their eyes that conveys unquestionably ‘I indulge in food, wanna find out what else I indulge in?’ I wasn’t one of those girls. I didn’t look curvy and sexy. I looked over stuffed, bloated and blob like, I felt old, like my youth had been robbed from me.


In a determined bid to nick my youth back, to become slim again, I threw away the take away menus, swapped cans of coke for two litres of water a day, shopped for fruit, vegetables and fish. I joined a gym and went five days a week. I didn’t do gentle exercise, I skipped yoga and tai chi and did high energy classes, sweated, braved the embarrassment of being the fattest girl in the classes, being the girl half dead, beetroot faced, struggling to breath not even half way through. This was all whilst the thin girls barely looked like they had broken a sweat. I pushed and kept pushing, I swam, did aerobics, step, kick boxing, circuit training, weighs, rowing, I did the lot, I did it all, week in week out because I wanted my body back. Nothing was going to stop me and nothing did stop me. I gave up alcohol when the weight stopped coming off, when I hit the inevitable brick wall with the gym I finished the job by switching to a low carb diet. When I fitted with ease in to a size 26 waist Diesel jeans I knew I had done it. I was me again. Indeed I think my weight loss journey is the reason why I don’t mind getting my body out in the pictures I put up alongside posts. These are pictures that a fellow blogger has on a certain forum referred to as ‘slut pics’. I am fine with those pictures, enjoy the fact that they are there. This is because the body in them is the body I have earned.


This brings me to a question that was put to me in a recent comment on my blog. ‘What do I think of other sex bloggers.’ I couldn’t answer that question in the depth I would have liked to because space didn’t permit but since I am here I can answer more fully. Each to their own, but the tame shallow antics of the spoilt and over privileged don’t do much for me. If I was having sex with as many random men as the certain other blogger mentioned above reports, men I don’t care about and men who don’t care about me I would want paying because I sure as hell wouldn’t be doing it for free. I don’t think it is cool and daring to shag around, to be any man’s for the price of a pint and a half providing you’re paying. I think all people do when they shag around is to sell themselves short, to make cheap look expensive. The best sex doesn’t occur during random encounters, it happens when there is friendship, when the people involved care about each other, are able to laugh and argue, trust and rely on each other. It is in this security that sexuality can be explored. In this space that boundaries can be pushed.


And in my friendship with my research partner I know I am transcending boundaries other people find hard to understand. The subject came up with an acquaintance of mine, someone from the upper classes who said with a tone entirely unkind ‘He’s a bit more than your friend.’ ‘No actually’ I said, ‘we are friends and that is the way it is.’ I left it at that with that person, there was no will in me at that time to explain why this friendship takes the form it does. Why I think its form is dictated by our shared social class. It is something that particular person wouldn’t understand the first thing about. What I would have liked to have said is that I think the nature of our friendship is hinged on the fact we both share disadvantaged backgrounds, our families are not the best. However what people like he and I do have is our friendships. These friendship probably mean more to us than it would for people who have tight knitted family support. Whilst others can turn to their families when the shit hits the fan people like he and I turn to our friends, we turn to them and we turn to each other.


Indeed our phone sex adventures had their genesis in an act of friendship. He was in a great deal of pain due to injuries he had sustained, sleep was elusive. A friendship we share with a certain doctor made me aware that regular orgasms would help him. There wasn’t much I could do to help my research partner with the other problems he faced but helping him to cum, to get some sleep that I could do. That I wanted to do. It wasn’t his idea, it was mine.


What started out as an act of friendship grew into something we both enjoyed. It got more and more fun as we experimented with role play. It was at this point my research partner made it clear he thought I had a real talent for phone sex, that he should know, he’d spent enough money on phone sex lines and what’s more he knew many people in the military had done the same. At this point an idea formed. That if he was right couldn’t I set up my own phone sex line business? I thought ‘Why not?’ If am good at it then it makes sense to make money out of it. So that became the plan. I started my blog in a bid to advertise this business I planned, as way of drumming up trade for the phone sex services I intended to offer. This is why, to answer a question posed to me in my comments, I called my friend my research partner. It is because that is what he was to me, he was my partner helping me to research phone sex with a view to doing it for a living. However plans changed. This is entirely down to all the wonderful support I have received with this blog. However I kept calling my partner in sexual misconduct my research partner in posts simply because I always had.


Anyway the train journey I recounted to you earlier had me chuckling for days. It made my research partner laugh when I told about it. As we chatted it transpires that it had always been a fantasy of his to have sex on a train. After my long train journey I could see exactly where he was coming from. I had to admit as I sat on that train, internally chuckling about my fellow passengers my mind had wandered to thoughts of sex. I did think it would be fun to discretely play under the cover of a coat or blanket, to whisper filthy suggestions in to another person’s ear as the train steadily and with purpose rocked its way to its destination. But that’s just me, laughing makes me god damn horny. Indeed the men who have been able to separate me from my knickers are the ones who have made me laugh. The only type I have regarding the opposite sex is kind and funny.


On the basis of talk about sex on a train we devised a role play between us that did involve exactly what two people could get up on such a journey. Indeed before we started the role play I listened to Madonna’s ‘justify my love’. Her words ran through my mind and made my pussy ache … ‘I want to make love on train, cross country.’ Oh yes Madonna, I thought, your so right, damn right, too right, right fucking now, hard, rough, bodies pressed tightly, restricted in the only private space that can be found these days on most trains, the bath room, taken from behind, filth growled in my ear ‘sexy bitch, tell me what you want.’ ‘Your big hard cock rammed deep inside, fuck me hard, make me sweat and shake, make my pussy beg’ Skirt pulled up, knickers pushed to one side, my hands reaching behind to undone buttons, pull at zips… Can you tell I was horny long before this particular role play even started? In fact truth be told had my research partner not called sharpish I would have to have had a play without him. For whatever reason my filthy thoughts had left me gagging. Pussy tingling, eager and wet. It felt like a long wait for that particular phone call.


I kept myself busy during the wait for this particular call. I dressed to get undressed. A close fitted cardigan, tied with a bow at its collar, the bow mirroring another bow, one that sat on the arse of the tight grey pencil skirt I was wearing. Well it’s always nice to wrap presents. Running with this idea, how sexy wrapping paper can be, how hot it is to wear foxy underwear I wore a lacy basque and silky knickers, chosen because of their soft feel and cute girly bows. Stockings and 1940’s style shoes completed the look. I kept warm and got into character by slipping on the closest thing I had to something that looked French, the coat and beret featured in the pictures. Crucial to the arranged role play was the scarf I wrapped around my neck. It has a butterfly print on it. This printed scarf was how my British spy counterpart would identify me, how he would exchange information with me. How he would get to know much better the French girl he knew only before as codename Butterfly. With this signal there was going to be little need for conversation, it was going to be all about the action.


When the phone rang we both quickly and with desire slipped effortlessly into our characters. Within thirty seconds we had both turned back time and found ourselves in the 1940’s wartime France. We pretended to be on a train heading for Paris, exchanging discreet glances as we both stood in the buffet car. As my character, Butterfly moved from that part of the train, without the need for words, she was followed. There was much the pair needed to communicate and not everything that they desperately wanted to express to each other had anything to do with the war effort. As Butterfly slipped into her sleeper cabin she sat and waited, watched as her counterpart walked past. She was aware she would have to wait to make his acquaintance, later when there were less people watching, less eyes to observe and guess at what they had planned.


Soon he came, breaking the rules, failing to be as discreet as possible. It didn’t matter in that moment, they both sensed the urgency. There wasn’t much need for words as Butterfly slipped off her coat and undid the buttons of her cardigan. She revealed her tight basque, stood with just this on and her tight pencil skirt, her slim curvy body cut a perfect hourglass image. As she teased a piece of paper from the bra cups of her basque, paper that contained the information this British agent needed her fingers brushed against her tits, lingered on her hardening nipples. Her eyes locked with her spy counterpart, the information she had shared with him wasn’t the only thing he wanted. The other things he wanted, those of a hot intense sexual nature, were betrayed by the intent in his eyes. The spy couldn’t disguise his sexual desires. Despite his training, orders to remain professional at all times, to get the job done, reminders that lives depended upon him, he couldn’t hid from her how much he wanted her. How much he wanted to feel her body, to know her intimately. His true needs were betrayed by how deeply he inhaled each breath and the presence of his huge stiff as a rock cock barely contained by his trousers. All this made it plain that he wanted to fuck. To fuck and be fucked. To forget in that moment the fucking god damn awful war. He wanted to forget, in that moment he desperately wanted to get lost in the feel of her, to think about nothing but her touch. To forget what had gone before and instead soak up what it felt like to touch her, to smell her smell, to feel both their bodies get hot and glisten with sweat, to feel both their hearts pound and hear their pulses race.


Butterfly had much the same idea and much the same determination. She wanted to forget the danger she faced daily and instead focus on something good, the electricity between them and the chemistry it was clear they shared. Her hand moved along her leg, over her skirt, she reached behind and undid her zip, let the material fall to the floor, stood before him, her curves wrapped in silk and lacy. He watched, eyes wide, sat drinking the sight of her in as she put her leg on the corner of the small bed. As she ran her hand along her leg she felt the lace of her stocking tops, got turned on by the silky feel of the material and the tension of the suspenders holding them up. Her hand soon found its way to her pussy. She touched it over the silk of her knickers, felt her swollen clit throb at the gentle touch, panties moist with her already hot and dripping cunt. She knew she wanted to be fucked, the desire contained in the eyes of her counterpart added fire to her own. When he asked the words she had been waiting to hear ‘What do you want?’ She was quick to tell him. Quick to tell him how she imagined his breath on her neck, his lips kissing this part of her as his hands moving along her body, squeezing her tits hard, finding their way to her pussy, to her aching clit where she wanted him to play, to stroke and caress until her pussy begged to be filled with his massive stiff cock. She told him how she wanted to feel his cock on her tongue, to taste him, to open her mouth wide so she take his cock inside deep, to suck long and hard, to suck at first with the rhythm of the train and then to get faster and faster, harder and deeper.


She undressed him to his underwear, tied his hands with her scarf. Let him watch as she touched herself, legs spread wide, a full naughty no holds barred filthy view. She wanted him to hear her wetness as she stroked her clit back and forth, to look deep into her eyes as she slid a finger inside, let him imagine what it would be like to squeeze his cock inside her silky tightness. “ Tu me rends humide” she told him. She wanted him to see how much the tension; the danger had turned her on. For him to hear just how much she wanted his cock deep inside her pussy. For him to know how much she wanted to fuck him where he sat, to straddle him, for his cock to fill her, for her wetness to cover his stiff hard on and drip down to his balls, balls that slammed against her as she rode him fast and hard.. “Je te desire” she whispered. She wanted to fuck him hard, she needed to, to feel him as she ground harder, faster, longer and deeper, rougher than the rocking of the train. There was only one destination she was interested in them reaching and it wasn’t anywhere in France. She wanted for them to reach the point where they were both exploding, were the urgency, the need, the sheer physical desire reached its peak and they came together, breathless, her juice gushing down the shaft of his cock, his balls, emptying, releasing his hot sticky load . For them to cling together, her legs wrapped around his hard huge body, their sticky wetness, their sweat and heat bonding them together in that place, just for that moment.


By this point in the role play both my research partner and I were gagging. We both wanked hard and fast, fucked ourselves for everything we were worth. The toy that had been vibrating on my clit during our play, making me smile, was soon in my hand. I slammed it hard and deep in to my pussy that was begging for attention. I came, I gushed, he came, shot his hot load, we did it over and over again, the need for more and more of the same sweet sexual joy testimony to just how much this particular role play had turned us on. How it meant we both needed an all night long, sun starting to come up, birds beginning to sing seeing to.


Encore une fois became the motto of the night.


Waiting for tickets !


Slipping into something more comfortable


Hopping on and off trains wasn’t the only thing I hopped on !


You’d think I’d be cold ….


But I felt hot, How about you?

!

Your Thoughts

Thanks for voting in my poll.

Just to let you know there will be a new post coming soon !

Give me an F...

My research partner and I have become aware that some of my more recent posts have got a little off track. Recent I hear you laugh? Yep, it has been a while since I have posted. The only thing I can say in my defence is that a lot has been happening. I will give you a clue, this blog tells the story of some areas of my life. However there are stories within and around these stories and one day, not promising, I might just get round to telling all. But for now I am sticking to telling stories about my phone sex life because those are the one's that put a smile on my face. They are the ones I love to think about, plan, execute, dress up for and tell you all about as my knickers get more than a little wet.

 

 

With this in mind my research partner and I chatted. During the course of this chat we accepted that due to recent pressures we had become just a mite bit lazy. That we were no longer engaging in the role play we once did. Don't get me wrong the ideas were always there. Indeed a long list of fantasies were in place to play out and indulge in. It was just a matter of neither one of us having the mental energy to select a fantasy, pick a scene, play a character and run with the sexual high jinx that would ensue.

 

 

However, now that life is back on more of an even keel the naughty minx in me has emerged with a renewed thirst for word bound sexual adventure. This has not escaped the attention of my research partner. After we discussed the idea of getting back into the role play swing of things it was firmly agreed that we should as it has been so much fun in the past. After this conversation he called me the next day. He called wondering if I had any thoughts as to what we should do next. That's always been a dangerous question to ask me, have you had any thoughts? I told him I had. I told him that I had just the right outfit for the scenario I had in mind. That I would like for him to pretend to be an American football player to my cheerleader. That I, as this cheerleader, during the course of my cheers and tricks would watch him intently on the field. I would not take my eyes off him as he tackled for the ball and ran hard and fast to avoid being tackled himself. As he got hot and sweaty, muscles aching from the physical force of his exertion, I would be shaking a whole lot more than my pom poms to get his attention. Not that I,of course, would get his attention at this point. He'd been a man on a mission, playing hard to produce the touch downs his team needed to be victorious.

 

 

As I told my research partner due to his inattention to her in his football player role the cheerleader would decide that more direct action was needed by her. She planned to get exactly what she wanted and exactly what she wanted was him. Just like he had been focused on scoring touchdowns she was intending to score herself. As he washed away the mud and sweat from his big hard muscular body as he showered after his triumphant game, letting the hot water fall over every inch of his imposing manly frame, soothing his tight muscles the cheerleader would watch and wait in anticipation. She would hide where no one could see her in a dark corner of the shower room. Here she would sit drinking in the sight of his hard huge body, feeling her clit swell and her pussy ache as she played quietly, feeling its wetness and her lips becoming thick and responsive to her touch. Here she would discreetly sit, her desire for him growing and intensifying as she waited for the rest of his team to leave. She wanted the rest of the team to fuck off so she could join this particular American football player in the shower, where they would be all alone in the midst of the steam and the heat of flowing water. Him getting clean was making her mind race with incredibly dirty thoughts, stroking her clit in slow circles was the only thing preventing her from pouncing on him sooner than intended.

 

 

And of course when his team did depart she approached him without a word. She let the water from the shower fall onto her, its heat mirroring the heat from her own body, drenching her tight cheerleader uniform so it clung to her slim curvy athletic body. As the hot flow of water made her uniform transparent, her hard nipples and the shape of her pert upright tits were made visible. This naughty cheerleader, in silence lowered her head and took the football player's cock whole into her mouth sucking deeply and firmly, her eyes fixed on his face as he closed his eyes and moaned in pleasure. Her hand moved from around his waist where she had gripped onto to his flesh so she could suck hard on his ever hardening cock. Her hands moved towards his arse. She continued to suck hard as her hands moved lower purposefully, They squeezed deeply against his arse until she was massaging his flesh and gently slipped a finger inside. The intensity of his pleasure as a consequence of her playful hands and eager tongue was felt in her mouth as his cock twitched over and over again with delight.

 

 

At this point my research partner insisted that I stop telling him about my plans, because he was working, he told me that he now had a raging hard on which ordinarily would be fine but for the fact he had important people to speak to through the course of his job. As I said he did ask me to tell him what my thoughts had been, I had only done what he asked. I thought he would have appreciated my obedience and my new found willingness to follow orders. However, to be fair maybe on that particularly occasion it was amusing for me to wind him up sexually given the night before he had declared I was putty in his hand. Maybe so, I don't deny it. But two can play that game. And its not like I didn't feel a little bit sorry for him, left helpless, with a huge hard on, having to give the veneer of professionalism to the people he had to talk to. I have sympathy, I have recently discovered that it would probably be quite hard for my research partner to hide an erection. In all the time we have been friends he has always told me he doesn't have a big cock, OK, I thought, thank you for sharing. However, he took it upon himself a few weeks back to send me a picture of his cock when he was hard. All I will say on the subject is lying bastard, it is HUGE! That picture did go some way to explaining his sexual confidence, he has always been, excuse the pun, cocksure and now I know why.

 

 

Now I know that it may sound strange to people who are reading that a male friend would send a female friend such a photograph. But in my world, amongst my circle of friends, it is not in the least bit strange. Lots of my male friends have sent me such pictures, indeed requests for feedback from a girls perspective are not uncommon. I think half the time the men in my life do so in order that I will return the favour and send them pictures of my pussy. For the final time boys, IT'S NOT HAPPENING. You will just have to take me at my word that it is super tight and ace in general. Not even if I get my clit pierced, which I have decided I pretty much am doing at some point, am I passing out photos.

 

 

Anyway, light hearted games to one side, yes I did leave my research partner with a hard on and horny thoughts to drive him to distraction with. But I did promise faithfully I would pick up where I left off with the fantasy later on that evening. And I am one girl who is as good as her word. So when we spoke later into the night I retold the fantasy to my research partner, reminding him exactly what it felt like to be in the shower room after the game, what it was like to be silently seduced by a horny cheerleader who wanted nothing more than to feel his cock in her mouth and to have his hard muscular body pressed against her. As she sucked his cock hard deep and fast, her finger in side his arse he was helpless and horny, body shaking, cock quivering as the commanding single-minded cheerleader sucked him to orgasm, enjoying the taste of his cum filling her mouth. The first touch down of this sexual game but by no means its last.

 

 

As the cheerleader released his cock from her mouth the American football player peeled away her wet uniform from her body. As he scooped her up, her naked wet tits were pressed tightly against his hard ripped chest. As she wrapped her legs around his waist, her pussy aching to be touched, licked and fucked. He whispered in her ear 'your turn.' Those words alone made her gush. He took her to the locker room and sat her on a bench. Here he ran his hands over her glistening tits and moved his hands down her small slim body until he was touching her pussy lightly over her knickers, feeling the heat of her eager cunt. He slipped a finger inside her knickers, felt her hot juice on his fingertips, enjoying the sensation of the silky sweet juice as it covered and ran down the length of his fingers. As he touched her swollen hard clit she screamed with pleasure. Her eyes pleaded with him to peel away her panties and to run his tongue all over her pussy. He did so, tasted her sweetness, felt the heat of her cunt on his face and as he licked her clit he slid a finger lower to her arse, teasing her with light touches until she was ready to have that finger inside, to have the intensity of those sensations made her pussy beg to be fucked. For his second hard on to be used to fuck her hard with, to bend her over and slam her rough from behind. To make her squirt so that her juices ran down the length of his cock and were felt on his balls. To cum hard, to be satisfied and to be exhausted by the intensity of the pleasure experienced by both.

 

 

By this point in the scenario my research partner and I had cum more than once. We were quite convinced that the mental effort required to engage in role play, acting out different characters was, as we should never forget again, worth the effort because the sexual get off is more intense. I encourage everyone to try phone sex and/or to experiment with role play. Take my word for it, it is good. Especially if like me you are abusing 02 unlimited and therefore costs nothing more than a £15 a month top up.

 

Give me an F…

I told you that you’d like my pom poms..

Time to play in the shower me thinks…

Smells Like Teen Spirit

This Christmas

This Christmas I voted with my feet and stayed put in my own home with my own cat. I did not return to the bosom of my ever loving family. This is not because I dislike them; I only dislike one of them. In fact au contraire, despite what has gone on in my childhood I do quite enjoy the occasional company of, for example, my mother. Whilst we cannot spend a great deal of time in each other’s company, not least because she is not what I want and likewise I am not what she wants. Both of us have accepted this. Neither one of us have any intention of changing to please the other, not even slightly. She thinks I am a smart arse madam with far too much to say for herself whilst she, on the other hand, reads the Daily Mail with grand aspirations. Not a great deal of wiggle room there. But still, whilst I cannot speak for my mother I, for one, am just tickly boo just fine with the state of play. Every now and again we can have a civil chat, we have been known, on rare occasions, to push the boat out and go so far as to have a laugh with one another. It is, for example, a source of no end of amusement for me to know that the only loving relationship she has ever had in her life is with her house. She loves it beyond measure, it is her baby. It is loved and cared for in ways that never occurred to her to care for her kids with. I know it should hurt but the absurdity of loving dead, gone, never been alive bricks and mortar with such intensity cracks me up. My older brother is the same way. Rumour has it a friend of his whipped out his mobile phone to show him pictures of his new baby. My older brother, not to be out done, got his phone out and proudly presented pictures of his new kitchen. You know, like it was the same thing. I swear to God you could not make this shit up.

I would have quite happily returned to my childhood home this festive season but for one huge stumbling block. My mother could not guarantee my older brother would not be joining us. That possibility hanging in the air like a hang man’s noose made of barbed wire was enough for me to decline spending Christmas day there. My other brother and I spoke with one voice; if he is going to be there we are afraid we won’t be. So my other brother gratefully came to my house. I know it was the season of goodwill and all and as my mother was quick to point out, abide weakly as she is not devoid of all sense, he is still your brother, that you may find my refusal to break bread with him petty. But take my word for it, I just can’t.

I don’t think my refusal to see him is born out of fear but my research partner says that a big fat lie that I insist on telling myself. Either way I prefer not to think it is that, I prefer to think it is because he just makes me feel sick. If he had just hit me over and over again I think I would hate him less but the torture he inflicted upon me was a two pronged attack. You get used to being hit, you accept it in much the same way as you accept you will brush your teeth twice a day. Yet someone gleefully revelling in your suffering, taking a long hot bubble bath soak in your pain, becoming rejuvenated, energised,made alive by your misery, feeding on it like an eight course banquet, just as full up, swollen and satisfied by it is a hard thing to get your head around. For example, there would be times when he would be out so I would think it was safe to sit in the living room and watch TV. He would come in unexpectedly, sit in the living room with me. As I would quickly and quietly try to leave, a sick smile would spread across his face until his face was engulfed by it, eyes twinkling and he would say with a timber of laughter in his voice ‘Anyone would think you don’t like me.’ It was like the child psychologist said when he was 12, ‘He knows what he was doing, he enjoys it.’ Mind you, in retrospect, I find his dual use of physical and mental violence impressive, not least because he has not, as of yet, mastered joined up writing.

However, what he did and said is not what bothered me, there is one question that nags at me, creeps into my head as much as I do somersaults in my mind to avoid it. It is the question I dare never to let myself ponder on and it is this question ‘Why was I so worthless to my parents that they let it happen?’ I asked my awful question to my mother once and once only, it didn’t go well. Here response as she carried on drying her dishes was to shrug her shoulders, back still kept to me, no decency to even look me in the eye and she said ‘Well, I didn’t think it was affecting you that badly because you were doing well at school.’ Not affecting me? Not fucking affecting me? I was half dead and wished I was was dead, NOT FUCKING AFFECTING ME? Oh you did not just say that bitch. In that moment I was flooding with hate, a rush of anger so intense I have ever felt the like of it before or since. I had kept my month shut for her, I did not dial 999 for her, because she had drummed it into me that if her son went to jail, you know where he belonged, it would kill her. I flew at her, knocked her square on her arse. Thankfully I was able to stop myself and walk away but in that moment I didn’t want to hurt her, I God damn wanted to bury her.

My dad heard the story I swear he was proud, beaming in fact. He laughed, said by God she had that coming, that when he was married to her he frequently used to think about wringing her neck, wished he had. It was a daddy daughter moment hallmark do not make cards for. You know your family are all kinds of crazy when… While I am not proud of taking a pop at my mother I don’t think I am ashamed of it either. The way I see it is this, she, without remorse, knocked ten bells of shite out of me when I was a toddler, dragging me out of the bath by my hair when I was three and she can’t deny doing it because my dad caught her at it, well if she wanted to hit me then hit me now, hit me now, now that I am grown, five inches taller than her and have been known to kick box for fun. Funnily enough she doesn’t seem keen. But that’s the thing, if you abuse your children, let them be abused, neglect them, betray them do it at your peril because they will grow up and chances are they will be bigger than you when they do.

So my brother came to my house and we had our Christmas dinner together. And it turned out quite well, I didn’t burn anything and I did have cooking tips provided from various sources. The trick, I have discovered, to make really good roast potatoes is to par boil them and then put them in the fridge. If they are stone cold when they hit the hot oven fat they will come out super crispy. I even nicked an idea from Marks and Spencer™ and made cheese and leek mash. That was, even if I do say so myself, really rather nice. However, I defy anyone to say they had an odder conversation as they tucked into their tea than I did. I was sat, knife and fork in hand, ready to attack my meal when my brother made an announcement. He’d been thinking he said about going to see an escort. Now this in itself I do not fine shocking. He has this year split up with his girlfriend and I can understand why he would want to fuck a fit girl. His ex-girlfriend was a size 32 and while I know he cared a lot for her I don’t think he enjoyed the physical side of the relationship. I think he deserves a medal for having the courage to attempt having sex with someone that size; it must take some quite adept mental gymnastics to bring yourself to do it. Not that she had any self-awareness or saw herself as she really was. I know this because she did once hold an Ann Summers™ party where she held up a picture from the catalogue of some chiffon underwear and declared to me that my brother should pay for it as, and I quote, ‘because he gets all of the pleasure.’ I swear my jaw visibly dropped, the preposterousness of her words leaving me lost for words.

So no, I don’t find the idea of him thinking about using an escort shocking. It’s much more honest and a great deal more moral to employ the services of a hooker than to meet a girl down the pub and tell her anything she wants to hear in order to separate her from her knickers. My research partner does describe himself as a player and I do tease him about it, calling him Alfie and such like but what I really think is that, joking aside, he is not a player by my definition of the term. He doesn’t lie to girls, he doesn’t make promises, he is just the sort of man that likes women and they like him so there is never any harm done. However what I did find shocking is what my brother thinks he can get an hour with an escort for a mere £100. The type of girls he is thinking of, and to be fair, he has been watching a lot of Secret Diary of a Call Girl© lately as it has been repeated on ITV2, do not turn up for £100. Still, he’s always been an optimistic and I don’t think I would change that about him.

Anyway once Christmas dinner was eaten we watched a brilliant Deal or No Deal™ on Channel 4, the guy playing was mad about Liverpool Football Club so I was on his side right from the get go, when he got £75,000 I was chuffed to bits for him. Then I started to think, once I had an hour’s lie down, about getting ready for going out. I’d gotten tickets to go to my local and I thought it was better for my brother to be out and about as opposed to sitting in thinking too much about his ex. So to my local we went. I was a good girl and stayed sober, drinking Archers Peach Schnapps™all night. Well, I didn’t have much choice really, I had promised my research partner I would come home in a fit state to chat because, as he said, I was no good to him pissed. And it was great to be that girl who walks home from the pub sober, who remembers her night, who all the guys in the pub think is dead classy because she is not pissed and has come out in clothes that don’t make her look like she is touting for business. Yep, I very much enjoyed being that girl. I went so far as to flash a wicked smile to a 70 year old bloke who was eying me up as I walked passed him to go from my table to the door to smoke. Well you have to admire, nay reward the spirit of the guy, that age and still looking at the talent. I was as pleased as punch with myself that I had not let my research partner down. It wasn’t a time to push my luck, he hasn’t appreciated me teasing him in previous posts and I don’t blame him, I should have been more mindful of his position. He has however, punished me in some wonderful ways for being a ‘naughty bitch’ but those stories may well have to keep for another time because just for now I am telling you about how my Christmas day unfolded.

So on two feet I arrived home and as luck would have it my brother within five seconds flat passed out on my sofa. It was perfect. I slipped a blanket over my brother, got his shoes off then closed all the doors, dived into my bedroom with my Kenco and Marlboro Lights™ to the ready and let my research partner know I was back and sober as promised. Now my research partner did very selflessly say that we didn’t have to get up to anything as he was aware I had a house guest. However on checking my house guest it was clear he was well and truly passed out. Not surprising really, he had been on double Jack Daniels™ and Coke™ all night. Therefore I felt prepared to take the chance, that if I was quiet my research partner and I could get up to some fun. Quiet my research partner laughed, you? But no, quiet I was because quiet I had to be and it did bring a completely different feel to the phone sex session. I didn’t get undressed, just slipped my knickers, tights and shoes off. To be honest I didn’t want to take the dress off because I had, by that point, bumped its status up to one of my three favourite dresses. This is because lots of people had said how good I looked in it. But that’s Jane Norman™ for you, generally the right side of sexy.

So knickers off my research partner and I settled down to have a chat and a play. We had both been looking forward to it, I because I knew fine well I was earning my way back into the good books and he because he had been stuck doing paper work all day long. He is a perfectionist on the quiet so he does take the time and pay attention to detail so things are just so. You can see why the Army is a good fit for him as a career. Anyway I don’t know if it was all the flattery I had been on the receiving end of during the evening or if it was because I was just chuffed that I didn’t disappoint my research partner but as I slid my hand up my dress to touch my already aching pussy I found myself deliciously dripping wet, a fact I whispered down the phone to my research partner which was enough to set him off, tell me more he said, so I did.

I told him how as I touched my pussy my fingers were instantly soaked in hot sweet juice, that my clit was hard and just placing a finger on it, stroking it only ever so lightly was making me gush and spread my legs wider. He encouraged me to spread my legs as wide as I could and run my finger all over my pussy so I could enjoy the feel of the wetness on my fingertips. He asked me to run my wet fingers lower, to use my finger tips to massage my arse. I was in such a good mood that despite the fact anal has never really been my thing, I was quite cheerfully going along with his suggestions, placing a finger inside and moving it back and forth. But’s that my research partner for you, he has one of those personalities, a manner and a tone of voice that are very persuasive.

Well I did go along with his suggestions and enjoyed, despite myself, all the anal adventures we were embarking upon, even graduating to using my toy in place of my fingers. I don’t deny it, it was a huge turn on, I went along with it all willingly enjoying every minute of it, feeling my pussy ache hard as the sheer eroticism of it became over whelming, hushed tones describing graphically for my research partner what I was doing, what it felt like, exquisite being my word of choice and what it was doing to my pussy which was, in the end, making it scream to be fucked. A pleasure my research partner denied to me at first, he was enjoying hearing me fuck my arse, telling him all about it and it was a delicious torture, a wonderful tease to be made to wait. When I had his permission to do what I longed to do to, to slam my toy damned hard and deep into my cunt, the relief, the pleasure, the intensity and instant satisfaction I felt doesn’t lend itself to words, it was just beautiful. Scream was what I wanted to do, instead I just moaned, controlling my breathing as my research partner suggested so I didn’t get carried away. He knew it was one of those nights, when I was liable to scream the house down and wake up neighbours if he didn’t keep reminding me to remember where I was and who was in the next room. So I very quietly fucked myself, muffled the screams that kept threatening to escape and whispered my joy to my research partner who had the luxury of being as loud as he liked. It took moments for me to cum; it was fast and hard and ended my Christmas day perfectly.

I hope my research partner is no longer vexed by me. However I would not like people out in cyber-world to think that the banter we share is anything other than that, it is shared. It goes both ways and sometimes it cuts both ways. My research partner has been known to make me cry. Once. Way back when we were having a chat and this is how it went down. Back in the day when we first started playing around with phone sex. He said he found my approach matronly. Could you say that again? I said you are a bit matronly. That is what I thought you said. You aren’t saying anything, say something. Give me a minute, in my head I was screaming, can’t speak, too insulted, too completely and utterly insulted. I felt like I had been on the receiving end of a hard, fully committed kick to the gut, the type you don’t expect, that both stuns and winds you, annoying, pain in the arse tears burning my eyes. Have I upset you he asked? No, what ever gave you that impression, scooby fucking doo? I need to go the toilet I said, are you crying he asked? Nope, not admitting to that, I just need a piss I said, is that alright with you? As it goes I wasn’t going for a piss and I wasn’t going to cry either, I was going to sit quietly for a minute, run my hands under a cold tap, take a moment to gather my thoughts.

When I returned he said I have really upset you haven’t I? Well, yes, yes you have. You have just aged me three decades in three seconds flat. Matronly denotes an old battle axe woman with tits around her stomach who wears industrial strength support bras. Is that how you see me? Cheers mate. I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant I find you bossy at times. Bossy I can live with I said, matronly is entirely different, never say that to another girl as long as you live, not unless you hate her, want to put her on her arse and never want to see her again. Do you not want to do the phone sex thing anymore, I wouldn’t blame you he said. I was thinking whoa there cowboy, lets not be hasty, I will get get over it, it just stung a bit. And that is the thing about banter, it can sting, it is funny because it touches the truth, sometimes it is a tickle, it can be a light pleasant brush that brightens your day and sometimes it floors you like a sleigh hammer and puts you on your arse. The truth is sometimes mother fucking painful and raw. However the rule with banter is a simple one. Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it. If you take the piss, fair is fair, you have to take your share. Anyway I hope my research knows I am sorry for sharing his stories that were not mine to tell. I didn’t know they were not for public consumption or I would not have done it. However when I started this blog he told me I could write whatever I wished. I hope he remembers he likes me really and Liverpool girls are…

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