Saturday, 18 June 2011

'England's Fair Garden'

by Sandrine Lopez

- - - - - - -

Men love their country. Men also love guns, shooting... killing. When those passions collide, terrible things happen...

My husband-to-be loved this England. And I loved him for it.

Then his letters from Europe stopped.

He never returned.

I remember the day, the exact moment, the missive arrived. Black ink finality on white. The beginning of November, 1918.

The Great War ended ten days later.


John and I grew up together. Marriage was an arranged convenience for our families. Fortunately we had fondness for each other, attraction which blossomed into love before the call of King and Country took him. We wrote frequently, enthusiastically, and I was proud, so proud, of his officership.

We were to marry on his return from duty. I listened to Papa telling how the War was going. The Allied Forces were pushing back the enemy. It would soon be over. John would be back before Christmas.

At first I thought duty meant John had no time to write. My urgent letters went unanswered.

Then the telegram arrived. My world, echoing the world torn apart, fell to pieces.


I buried myself in matters of distraction. I had always helped Mama with the gardening, and nurtured a red rose from smallest bud to fullest blossom. My gift to John for his return.

I could have let it die, wither away like my sense of purpose, in winter. Instead I potted the small bush and kept it in the conservatory.

Other duties prevailed. England had lost many young men - sons, husbands, fathers. Families suffered. John's father had also been lost in the War. Ours was fortunate. No brothers. An injury prevented Papa from fighting. We took John's family - mother and sons - in patronage. George, the eldest at 15, was to join the Army the following year.

I became a friend and confidante, while their mother worked to support them. Grateful of support but not wanting to be a burden.

George had young friends in the same position. I was a comfort, sweet gardener, to all - babes and children. Caring, sustaining, fostering. A mother in training. But the black ache I would not be one to John's children still darkened my soul.

The children were my roses. Men were the flowers the garden of England had yielded to the bitter winter of war. We were now in the uneasy peace of spring, a country barren with loss. These new shoots needed nurturing against the frost of mourning, until a summer of recovery, emotional and economic. Blossoming to take their places. I ensured they knew love, hoping we never saw war again.

The first bloom was George, now old enough to enlist. His nurturing was briefest. I knew the loss of his brother wore heavily on him, as I kissed him farewell on the cheek.


Before I realised, it was a new decade. 1920, scented with the promise of change.

Months passed. I was dressing the younger children when the door swung open. Silhouetted against sunrise was a soldier. I went as white as the ghost I perceived it to be - John. Restored.

Instead, it was George. My heart pounded... fear, hope, relief, disappointment. A tearful kiss on the cheek. In that emotional moment I realised, even though unalike - John was brown, hair and eyes, while George was fair and blue - there may be love there also.

We shared a few glorious weeks. Touching hands as we played with the children, our 'pretend family'. They had a Mama in myself and, briefly, a Papa in George. He was as bold in that as I imagined him as a soldier. Strength and vigour, but with tenderness also.


Another change. Ruth.

We had been at school together but our paths separated. I had heard she married abroad but no-one who knew wanted to speak of it. Rumour accused them of cowardice, fleeing England to avoid the War.

"Mary?" A woman's voice called, as I pushed a baby along for a morning perambulation.

I almost did not recognise her. I never considered Ruth fashionable but she was the personification of covers for women's gazettes. The skirt was short, revealing her knees. A thin top under her coat barely hid the lack of corsetry. I was more covered in my nightdress.

She indicated the perambulator. "Yours?"

"A friend's."

Ruth was disinterested. "Not really my style."

"Where have you been?" I asked.

Ruth's eyes rolled upwards, hands spread. "Darling, where haven't I been?" She listed American states, an itinery embellished with appeal or disdain.

I became aware of a tall, rather dashing man approaching her. Ruth turned but before any introduction, he took her in his arms in a quite ungentlemanly way, pulled her face to his and kissed her. Only quite unlike any I had seen. Their lips locked, she held his face to hers. An uncivilised, almost brutal, savagery to it. But both were enjoying it, immensely. They continued for a minute, as I averted my gaze.

"Sorry Mary." I heard Ruth gasp, "This is... " Another breathlessness sigh. "James."

James, a smudge of Ruth's lipstick on his lips, offered his hand. It was strong and firm. A grip which could have crushed the life out of Ruth. Yet she endured it, as love only could.

Boldly, I enquired, "Is that how married couples kiss in America?" The country often headlined the vulgar, the indecent.

Ruth laughed. "We're not cuffed. Heaven forbid! We're... very, very good friends." They exchanged glances that implied far more. That explained the silence - love that dare not be spoken. Relationships outside of wedlock.

How very fashionable of her.


On my 21st birthday Mama gave me a book. Intended for my wedding, now indefinitely postphoned. Written by a woman doctor for all women. The loss of so many men meant we were replacing them in society, not just the 'little men' - the children I nurtured. Some women pushed further for suffrage, equality not only in work but every manner. No longer walking behind but side-by-side.

The book explained beyond the act of procreation, to the pleasure of physical union between man and woman. That sex was something to be enjoyed mutually, not just endured for the sake of children. It was too new, too different, for Mama to believe but she was forward thinking and cared for my well-being.

She held my hand tight as she imparted the book.

"Do not tell your father."

No more was said.


The decade passed quickly.

George and I shared long walks when he was home, usually with children still in my care. I had long felt the inner urge to have my own. I think George sensed it but felt as I had been John's, there was impropriety, disloyality, in replacing him.

I got letters from Ruth, living with James, and an invitation to a party. I expressed doubt to George, my chaperone, being associated with someone of dubious morality. Perhaps men viewed such things differently but his reply was, "Enjoy and be damned."

We arrived at the train station in the afternoon, and were met by Ruth and James in their new automobile. George looked so dapper in slacks and blazer. My heart pounded as we sped along sunlit lanes, verdant countryside a blur on either side.

"Faster!" Ruth urged James, laughing, no stranger to such velocity. I gripped George's hand for comfort. His reassuring smile melted away my fear. My heart pounded still, but differently.

Our room was furnished with a large double-bed. It took moments to see the incongruity of this.

"We're not... " I started, but George put a finger to my lips, took the key and said to James, "Perfect, old man. I'll take it from here."

Behind the closed door, George held me. "Nothing to get balled, old girl. I'll sleep in the chair. No need for them to know, is there?"

A gentleman still.

Ruth had made new friends. As the party began, she and James flapped, both smoking, making sure everyone had lots of drinks. She joked they left America because of the Prohibition.

"Juiced our own joint here, darling!" Ruth laughed, and attacked - not exactly kissed - James' face again. A small war of unashamed passion. Lust with the intent of attrition, to wear the other down towards... I could scarcely imagine what.

I needed to blur their indiscretion, and downed my champagne. "Something stronger, please?" I hissed at George.

I am no party pooper and brought my full attention on George, learning new dances with him. It was a hoot. I soon forgot Ruth, her crudity, even where I was. The only thing I knew was George, as we hopped and swung round the floor.

I had a notion of being guided, dancing upstairs, and became sensible at our bedroom door. Another couple along the landing were swirling into another, laughing and kissing.

"George, I... " A protest cut short by his lips pressing to mine. A gentleman's kiss, polite and formal. He tasted sweetly of champers and martini.

We fell through the door, stumbled across the floor, tumbled onto the soft bedding. Darkness... the only light the moon. Under its heavenly eye, tainted by shadows, George almost looked the image of John. I could imagine this being our lost wedding night.


It was a thing impossible. I burst into tears.

George sat up, and held me as I sobbed.

"Oh, George... " I sniffled, "How can I ever forget John?"

He hugged me tenderly. "I know, old thing. Don't you think I miss him too?"

He lifted my chin with his strong, gentle hand. Looked at me with those blue eyes. "I don't think you ever properly grieved, my brave, stiff-upper girl."

I hadn't. The rose was John's epitaph to me. I had hidden sadness behind smiles as I cultivated it. Nurtured George, the other children...

The wrongness of it all... the War, the death, rose in me to become anger. I thumped his chest.

"Why, George?" Another thump, harder. "Why!? WHY!?" I punched and wailed. He took it like a true man. Let me work through the veiled mourning of years in gall and tantrum. An uninhibitedness only drink can bring.

My heart pounded as loud as my small fists. George wrapped his arms round me, holding me tight until I could hardly move. I was still impassioned, struggled furiously, screamed, tears running down my face. Then he pressed his lips, open-mouthed, to mine.

I struggled against that too. My fury didn't dissipate but transformed.

George shrugged his jacket off, as his hands sought to unfasten my dress. Blazing with emotion, I unbuttoned his shirt, his trousers, then spun round as he undid, peeled off, my corset. I felt truly unbound in that moment.

The last remnants of clothing fell away. We were still fighting, an inspired contest. Not against, but with each other now. My rage became a terrible thing. I clawed at George with my nails, hissed like an undomesticated cat.

It was unseemly for women to fight...

I fought as I imagined John had, for what he believed in. Then dying, alone and cold, choked in dirt.

The same dirt the rose had grown from.

I believed in John. My fight was to be with him.

I clawed my way through reality. Tore away the facade of George in front of me, bareskinned as a newborn babe, yet as erect as only men could be, to reveal John.

Just once.

God forgive me.

There was still an anger, a madness. I had seen George, as a boy, scrap with John. Children at play, rolling together. An energy, where the good fight was never to harm. George, and through him John, and I were as children, youth and maiden, in an act meant to create children.

I could not lay there, passively. Fate had given me one chance to experience this. My strengths are hidden within, disguised in a body considered frail. All those fortitudes, that potency.

I fought... remembered Ruth and James...

Decadent, yes. But such spirit. Men were always the hunters, the pursuers. Now that was changing, as was my rage. The same vitality. Not bad emotions like hate, but a storm of love.

It wrenched at my stomach, a tempest within. A downpour of God's tears. A tide which soaked me where John penetrated, and made us both damp to touch with exertion.

I needed to know all of John. What could have been. A lifetime compressed into one night.

My hands ran over his back, slowly but with growing urgency. Until I had touched, memorised, every inch of exposed, moonlit skin. I brought my thighs up against his hips, so I could experience him more. He swayed like branches caught in breezes, then tossed by a squall.

He brought his own fervour to bear, hard and deep, a fight to plant his seed. It would not, could not, ever grow to be the rose of our love. A baby. I prayed this first time I would not become a mother, no matter how much I yearned. I could not shame him that way, let alone myself.

It blossomed into burning heat. A glorious unfolding, as unexperienced words from that book became flesh, within my flesh. My senses ignited like fire, making my skin glow as if under summer sun.

I was still clawing John's back, lost in a haze of heavenly sensation.

Still crying, now with the absolute fulfilment of joy.

So much said as our souls touched, sparking like electricity, yet so little compared...

Was it greedy to want the whole night? Until the sun exposed my dark fantasy?

Ruth would have been proud.

I rolled on top of John, pressed home my attack. He pushed me to kneel up, tenderly exploring my skin, my softness.

Thinking only of John, until I thought no more. Natural instinctive love.

I had been starved by his loss, my own flower neglected, withering. He wet me, nurtured me, as only a man could. I grew again, my body, a radiant bloom. My face turned to the glow outside the window.

Dawn. Sunlight.

Darkness ends.

The next I knew was George, lying facing me, our eyes meeting with unsaid understanding.

"I'm ready now, darling." I told him, as we curled into each other and joined the sleep of those put finally to rest.


George asked Papa for my hand in marriage. We were joined in matrimony the following summer.

Our first true night together, with George and not the spirit of John, was wonderful. But we waited before starting a family, using birth control so we could enjoy each other as only married couples should.

I became with child in the spring of 1929, and gave birth as the new decade began.

We took the baby, our son, to Westminster Abbey, to see the Tomb. Innocent eyes not comprehending. But one day he will know.

We christened him John.


Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog

- - - - - - - -

Sandrine's notes:

This was my entry for the 1920's themed issue of 'Filament' magazine, and while it ticked all the boxes I wanted, it didn't fit in with their ideal of erotic short stories. They were probably right but I wanted to give the era a go, and felt it more interesting
not to just simply transplant 21st century sexual drives back to a 1920s setting. My view was, how could I get a proper and upright woman of that socially restricted era so passionate, so incensed, that it would explode and could come to the fore sexually. The burning and unfulfilled gap in her life, left by her husband-to-be being killed at the end of the First World War, seemed a good idea. I let it simmer through into the 1920s, her love eventually growing, like a flower, towards his brother George. The second idea was that the main character, Mary, would nurture the boys, George among them, in her care to be more considerate and loving, so they would one day be better husbands themselves, after the horror of war. Some of my feelings on current overseas conflicts came to the fore here too.

Anyone wondering what 'the book' is, it's 'Married Love' by Dr Marie Stopes, published in 1918, which gave me an insight into the understanding of female sexuality at the time. A chapter title from it - The Glorious Unfolding - is actually name-checked in the story itself. While it may seem quaint to many women now, I was pleasantly surprised how modern most of it is, and straight-forward. We writers of erotic literature now, nearly a century on, owe her a great debt. If in doubt, read Melvyn Bragg's overview here.

'Be My Doll' Review

It's not often I get to blow my trumpet (Ta-dah, ta-dah!) but thank you to Miranda Forbes of Xcite Books for bringing this review of 'Raising Spirits', which features my short story 'Be My Doll', to my attention.

And of course, I'm very chufted it was so well received.

I guess that means I have to keep writing, doesn't it?

You can purchase 'Raising Spirits' here:


Monday, 13 June 2011

'Last Night'

by Sandrine Lopez

The advert seemed innocuous enough... care assistant for a trip to a European clinic. After filling out application forms and the usual checks, I was set for an interview with the patient himself, Mr. Hall.

The doctors don't even have a name for his affliction, a nervous hypersensitivity that makes movement difficult with discomfort. It's now in a chronic stage, and increasing painkillers and analgesics only dull his senses so I'm told he comes off them for this first meeting.

What I didn't expect was a man no older than myself. The amount of care suggested someone almost incapable of looking after himself, so had imagined someone advanced in years. But illness is no respecter of age, striking indiscriminately.

He rises slowly from his chair, measured movements, trying not to look in pain. For whom each gesture chafes. Every breath cuts. But when our eyes meet it's as if we've known each other all our lives. New acquaintance, yet old friends. Or lovers missing their soulmate and reunited.

It's obvious the attraction is mutual but he doesn't want me in an awkward position, professionally or personally. I should not become attached. Can not.

His voice is controlled too, pauses when the pangs overwhelm, eyes closing for a moment before continuing. It's as painful for me to watch as it is for him in reality.

His explanation is brief, having learned to make every word count, a passion only pain can bring, constantly on adrenalin because he fights it always.

Then I see it reversed, the pain only passion has. When emotion takes you to the edge and further, when your soul learns to fly... or plunges into the abyss. I can tell he has experienced both.

He has some doubts, not about my experience, but time is short - the appointment is days away. I get the position. His secretary will brief me on the flight details and accommodation on the way out.

As I leave, he wears a bittersweet expression. A smile with a tear. He's glad it's me accompanying him... but somehow he's not.

I have an inkling of that too...


Mr Hall... "Please," he urges, "Call me Lester." ...needs drugs to endure the flight so for the most part he dozes. I watch over, unable to take my eyes off him, wondering if his dreams are filled with pain and anguish also.

The journey, thankfully, is problem free. At the hotel, we take dinner in our room. Though not wanting to exert him, I make conversation so we don't eat in silence. I know so little about him, wanting to know everything, anything.

"Will the treatment help?" I ask.

There's a long pause. "Yes, it'll help."

His vice is chess. A game not requiring much movement. My father taught me how to play and, as it makes him happy, distracts from the discomfort, I agree to a game.

He lets me be white, make the opening move.

White Pawn to E4.

"Do you have family?" I ask.

Black Pawn to E5.

"Parents died early. Left everything to me. Been in care all my life. One way or another."

White Queen to H5.

"I'm sorry, that's very sad."

Black Queen's Knight to C6.

He pauses. "They were spared my pain."

White Queen's Bishop to C4.

"No friends?"

Black King's Knight to F6.

"Don't get out much."

I see an opening.

White Queen checks Black King at F7.

Mate & Endgame.

The game is too short, too easy. I suspect he let me win just so he could see me smile.


I arrange a taxi to take us to the clinic the next morning, giving the address to the driver. It's a short, wordless, drive across the city.

I help Lester out and we climb the steps. A small plaque by the door gives a name which takes a few moments to register. It's been in the media, caused a furore over the world.

It's an assisted suicide clinic.

Lester has come here to die.


Lester doesn't let me in on the meeting. Apparently all the consultations have been done, and this is quite literally the final trip.

Why me? Why not his personal assistant, or nurse, or...

When it's time to go I'm burning with anxiety, anger, fear... assisting suicide is a criminal offence. But he explains someone 'unconnected' will be less liable. His staff will not go without but distanced from the act itself makes it look they do not directly benefit from his death. So does my new, unsuspecting position. He's thought it all through.

After we get back and I've made him comfortable he gives me an allowance to go shopping, enjoy the local scenery while there's time. There will be too much to do for the flight back, even though most of it is already arranged. The only specific item is to buy a nice dress. I'm hardly in a position to argue. But even less inclined for retail therapy.

I thought Lester may want to spend a bit more time together but he has some last calls to make.

"Shoo." Is the end of the matter, as far as he is concerned.


Tonight is Lester's last night on Earth. He's not sad, he's joyous. An eager anticipation that after so many years, he'll be free of pain. I have difficulty believing his choice but if I tell him not to do it, regardless of his own situation, then I'm just being selfish surely.

It's not my decision. Not my pain... at least not his pain. I have a different one.

Over dinner I'm the one who finds it agony to talk. Lester is, for him, more vocal. Still short, tense comments but more of them.

Professional detachment. I should be comforting and joining in his 'joie de vie', for want of a better term, not being a sulky bitch.

"Grant me three wishes." he says, out of the blue.


"Indulge me." He closes his eyes as discomfort threatens again. These final hours he's going without painkillers. It's not to remind him why he's doing this but because he wants the closing acts of his time here to be lived, as felt, as fully as he can. Even if it kills him. It's not going to matter either way. To him, at least.


There's a disco in the hotel, and he leads me down to the floor. There's no further instruction except, "For me..."

Dance like I have never danced before, will ever again. Most there are couples, shaking it with each other. My partner sits and watches. In his eyes, the passion of pain, pain of passion...

Isolated in one corner, silhouetted by whirling coloured lights, I move slowly at first, finding a rhythm for him, imagining him dancing with me, bodies tantalisingly close but never touching because it would hurt. So my hands replace his, smoothing down my sides, discovering the sway of my hips. I make out even these shock, feelings of pleasure so intense they go through ecstasy and into something indescribable. Like the face of God...

...for no one may see me and...

A tear. Droplets of sadness on my cheek. My dance becomes one of extremes... a tragedy in twirling touches but joy for the end of suffering.

As the last slow, soulful track is played, for all too brief moments, Lester stands, moves slowly towards me and dances. It must be the most painful thing he can do. I'm reminded of The Little Mermaid, for whom every step is a walk on sharp swords but does it for love.

I'm not sure whose passion, pain, is greater.

The music stops. The dance is over.

I help Lester back in our room. He's wracked with agony but he laughs as only someone with nothing to lose can, "I enjoyed that."


"Make love."

Less a wish and more a suggestion. But not entirely for his benefit. He knows that if I touch him, kiss him, caress... hold... it will hurt. The more we embrace, the greater the pain.

I've enjoyed the dance, allowing intimacy without contact, a fantasy consummating our souls but not our bodies. I want more. I think he does... how can I go further without crossing that border, threshold, of agony.

I slowly peel my dress off, making it seem the shedding of clothes is a relief. Disrobing each layer, even the gossamer of my slip and stockings, brings blissful release from the featherlight pressure on my damp burning skin.

By the time I am naked, my pain has turned to pleasure, set free with only the still air, his gaze, on me.

I know men's looks, how they can burn right through you, eyes slamming callously into my body. But Lester's admiring consideration is soft, reflection of that knowledge and making sure it is tender and caring, as if a spring breeze.

"Make love."

He reiterates his wish, and I go through my dance again, this time on the cool soothing sheets of my bed. My hands become his again, adopting his mindset.

He continues his lonely vigil, as I tease my skin, each touch agony, every caress pain. The sensitivity of my nipples, swollen with arousal, are daggers through my chest... stroking my stomach a hammer blow... and when my fingers gently slide within, I'm clawed by angry, unleashed pussycats.

I'm more delicate than I've ever been but it pushes my limits. The torture is extreme... excruciating... exquisite.

I cannot bear any more, the relief of my hand's exit from between my thighs triggers release of another kind. Deprived of pain, a new bliss explodes outwards, all over...

In the moments it takes me to recover, tears blurring my sight, Lester has undressed. Instead of joining me, he lays naked on his own bed, beside mine.

The choice is mine. Given the white pieces, the opening move. I'd be betraying professional conduct if I do, and him if I don't.

His last night on this world.

Trembling, filled with trepidation, I slide from my bed and lie softly beside his body, naked together. He puts his arm round me and, still shaking with fear at the harm I may cause, I kiss him gently.

His other hand finds mine and draws it to his erection. Tenderly, I smooth it, knowing his gasps are a mix of severe sensations. With a single gesture, he indicates I should kneel up and take him between my thighs.

"Won't it hurt?" I ask.

"All the torments of hell." Love is endurance.

Tears roll down my face, splash on him like small bombs, as I let him plunge into my abyss. This position allows minimal contact, as I do all the moving. Gentle, delicate rises and falls over him, in time with our shallow, scared, breaths.

Perhaps it is his over sensitivity but he cums very quickly, almost economically. Like his words, he makes every small thrust count. Then, surprising me once again, with tremendous effort, a triumph of will over pained body, he rolls me over, lays on top of me. I want to wrap myself around him but this must be more touch then he can bear. The most I can do is caress his face as he slowly eases himself back and forth inside me.

I look lovingly into his eyes and if they are windows to the soul the view beyond is carved out of his landscape in anguish and torment. Breathtaking vistas, beautiful to behold but created by elemental forces over unimaginable time...

Time which is running out.

It takes longer, his second climax. His face is that of a marathon runner, pressing for the finish. Just one more step... one more push... So soft, so tender. Gentle grinds. So when he lets go his ejaculation is uncharacteristically physical, and for short moments I hold him close, arms on back, thighs round his hips, show what it means to me, as he gives me our unique, one-off, orgasm.

Then, spent in emotional and physical agony, he rolls off me and lies very still. Care-minded professional, I check his weak pulse, listen to his almost inaudible breaths. Even in the dim light I can tell he is too pale, on the very edge of life.

He turns his head to me, and smiles. Reaches up and strokes my hair.


The last wish? Does he mean he wants to and... Or is it for me?

Then he holds my hand, closes his eyes...

Mate & Endgame.

...and is gone.


For what? Although I've only known him a few days, he has permeated every fibre of my being with his dignity and grace.

Some accuse people who commit suicide of cowardice but Lester was bravery itself. Just tired, worn down, eroded. I would answer back the accusers don't understand, that the law shirks responsibility by not protecting those faced with the hardest burden of decision. That politicians and the medical profession run and hide from this bigger question. Who is really afraid here... ?

I hadn't expected him to go like this. That having accepted fate, I thought we would at least wake in each other's arms, share a final breakfast, make that last heroic journey together.

I remember the song of our first, last, only dance.

Killing me softly...

Did he know this would be the way?


On returning, after a funeral attended only by myself and the few staff he had, there are the usual questions and tribunal. I answer them perfunctorily. It hardly matters. While Lester's solicitor sways the arguments in my favour but there may still be a charge. If so, I won't work in care again.

As I wait the long drawn outcome, I miss a period. A test confirms it... I'm pregnant. It can only be Lester's.

With this information, the solicitor has another surprise. Even though he could not have known if it would definitely happen, a last-moment codicil to Lester's will indicates any offspring has a fund. It's not wealth but as the mother of his child, we will be provided for comfortably. Like everything else, including his chess game, Lester needed to make sure of every possible move.

I do now have something to live for...


Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog

- - - - - - - -

Sandrine's notes:

This was written as an attempt to express the sense of loss after a short but unbelievably intense relationship. The main crux was how to have an erotic sexual scene which was, in effect, the last thing someone ever does? To put it plainly, how can you fuck someone who is dying, who you will never see alive
again? It was a difficult, and personally emotional, set of decisions... some, once again, drawn from real life.

Friday, 10 June 2011

'See No Evil, Speak No Evil...'

by Sandrine Lopez


What does darkness sound like?

You'd think it's silence... dead of night. Everyone asleep. Except it never is. There's always noise, no matter how distant. Trains fading in and out. Breathing up close. Sirens. Rustle of blankets. Footfalls.


I'm a creature of never-ending night. Of blacker-than-black darkness. And not just between setting sun and rising dawn.

He's back. I hear bags rustle before he enters the kitchen.

"Oooh," I sidle sensually along the wall towards him. "What you bought me?"

"It's a surprise." A bag rustles. "Turn around. Close your eyes."

Something touches my hair. Bands stretched over head until there's pressure around my eyes. I turn to him, open my eyes to blackness.


"What for?" I ask.

"Because your eyes always say, 'fuck me'. I want you to be innovative."

"Surely they don't?" I pause, then ask, "If my siren eyes are hidden, does that mean you don't want me any more?"

He takes my hand. I can tell by the number of steps and direction we're in the bedroom. Beside the bed, still unmade, where we fucked last night. The sheets must be strewn this way and that. Still heady with the lingering scent of us. Of sweat. His cum. Perfume of my wetness.

He's close behind. I can sense his warmth... no, heat... almost but not quite in contact.

Whisper in my ear. "Make me want you another way..."

I turn, know exactly where to feel. My waist level with his hips. Between them... my grip is accurate, intense. The stiffness of his cock through trousers and boxers. I relax, caress it. Let it burn in my palm even with insulating fabric.

"Better." he growls.

They say the way to a man's heart is via his stomach. I say it's lower. Fumbling with his garments until they fall away, and go down on him, quickly, greedily.

"Are your eyes saying 'fuck me' now?" I ask, before popping him in my mouth. Letting my tongue and lips have their wickedest of ways on hot, throbbing skin. Tasting his need to be penetrating me.

"Can't you tell?" he replies, before voice is lost to moans. Meaningless sounds of rapture. Of my tongue wrapping, lapping over his cock. Of lips pursed around the tip as I make him cum in gasping, shuddering spurts. Savour them on my taste buds before swallowing but not letting go. Milking him for a second, merciless blowjob, until his legs give and he collapses on the sheets with my mouth still surrounding him. Until he can't help but squirt almost painfully again.

Cum dribbling down my chin, I crawl up him. Share it in a sticky snog.

"Now tell me I only use my eyes... " I purr.

It takes minutes to get his breath back, so vigourous and sudden was his climax. Like a punch to his soul, while his jac was thrust hard and sweet in my throat.

"Too easy..." he murmurs. More rustling in his shopping bag of tricks. As I perch there wondering, another gadget is fixed around my jaw. Something not his dick in my mouth. A gag? I can't even ask...

"Try that again without your lips and tongue"

Bastard! I can't even call 'unfair'...

I'm on top, dressed. He still has his shirt on. I make to remove it. Then, as his arms are behind, bound within sleeves, I push him down so his wrists are pinned under his back.

The gag masks my dirty smile too...

I'm sitting on his dick, limp from two killer bjs but struggling under my twat to reblossom, harden for another round. My weight straps him to the mattress as I unbutton my blouse. Undo my skirt so I can pull it over my head until I'm just in my thong. I wish I could see his expression...

Leaning forward, I dunk my nipples to his mouth. He suckles them, making me sigh as his tongue caresses them to hard sensitivity, sparking through my body. Connecting hard with the lust in my belly.

Reaching back, I ease the thong to one side and settle back. I don't need to guide, as his rock rigid cock is bowed up ready. Sliding through me easily but with pressure enough to almost make me cum. By the time I sit up he's as deep in me as can be.

Gagged, I can't even ask if he surrenders, as my hips gyrate, spinning his cock pleasingly in my cunt. As my thighs tighten on his hips, keeping him in the vice of my lust.

Can't ask if, without eyes or mouth, my whole body screams 'fuck me'. Him trapped under me. Tweaking his nipples, running nails over trembling chest, dipping fingers in his mouth and letting him suck sensually on them, until my own rocking, swaying body has my fill of him.

Then it's my turn to collapse on him, satisfied.

Eventually I let him go, rolling off, letting his spent cock fall slippery from inside, more sweetly-scented wetness to sully our sheets. I hear him struggling to get up, unbind his arms. Shake the numbness from them.

Eventually, he ungags me to reveal a grin of enjoyment, but when the blindfold is removed, there is still darkness.

I've been blind for years. Never needed blindfolding but he needed to know if my unseeing eyes said more than 'fuck me'...

I guess they don't.

Fuck Me Friday: Smut for the Weekend by Aisling Weaver


by Sandrine Lopez


"I suggest Reverend Green did it with Mrs White, using his lead pipe, in the ballroom!"

Miss Scarlet sighed, "That's not how you play it."

Professor Plum chuckled, "Are you absolutely sure about that?"

Mrs Peacock raised an eyebrow, "By lead pipe, you mean..."

"That he was as hard as one, yes!" Plum confirmed.

"I say," Colonel Mustard weighed the long rope in his hand, "This is a bit saucy. Tying up and whatnot."

Scarlett's eyes rolled ceiling-wards, "And that isn't what it's for either."

"Ooooh, I don't know..." Peacock purred, sidling up to the young blond soldier, caressing the cord with delightful anticipation. "Your room, or mine?"

"It could be a crime of passion..." Scarlett considered. "The candlestick suggests a romantic liaison."

"Well I say to hell with crime. Let's stick with passion." The tall dark professor fondled his moustache suggestively in her direction.

"Or perhaps they were into erotic hot wax foreplay..." Peacock spied the candles flickering in the darkened study, her eyes glazing at some fond memory. The heads of the others turned sharply towards her, raised eyebrows over wide stares. She became aware of the attention. "What? Oh, did I say that out loud?"

Plum chortled to Mustard, "That'll put some lead in your pipe, my boy!"

Scarlett cried, "And we still haven't found out where Reverend Green and Mrs White have got to. I suggest we search, together. Safety in numbers."

"You've obviously not menaged enough, honey." Peacock murmured. Scarlett went as red as her dress, before leading them out.

As they passed the dining room, a distant scream called out.

"Well, I'll be blowed!" Mustard exclaimed.

At his elbow, Peacock suppressed an appreciative smirk, "Later, honey."

Mustard pulled the pistol from his belt and dashed forward. "Some bounder is killing her."

Scarlett's pulse raced. Now this was more like it! Aroused by the dark thrill, she hoisted her evening dress up and tottered after him. Peacock stroked the rope she carried, and sashayed on high heels after Mustard, wondering when they would tie the knot. The Professor eyed the voluptuous firm behind, and strode after her, muttering, "Lead... yes, definitely lead."

The woman's cries got louder as the foursome neared the ballroom. There were exhaustive pants within, a man exerting himself. A woman's loud cries.

Mustard's finger was tight on the revolver trigger. "The scoundrel must be beating her!"

"That's one way of putting it." Peacock's comment was worldly-wise as she turned the handle. "Gee, am I the only one round here getting some?"

Framed by the door, they saw Reverend Green in flagrante delicto, trousers round his ankles, with Mrs White, long skirt hoisted up higher than her spread knees. And it wasn't Holy Communion he was giving, despite her repeated calls for God.

"Obviously not." Scarlett sneered.

Plum puffed his way from behind, his monocle dropping, "Top ho! I was right all along!"

With a sigh of despair, Peacock snatched Mustard's pistol, aimed between Plum's legs... and shot him in the ballroom.

- - - - - - - -

#wankwednesday #plum

Tuesday, 7 June 2011


by Sandrine Lopez

It seemed to give him great pleasure when he described his cock as his 'utensil', which he had defined - from Wikipedia of all places - as 'a tool serving a set purpose'. And that set purpose, as far as he was concerned, was fucking me. Just that. No frills or foreplay. We'd just meet, have a few drinks and laughs to get in the mood, then he'd whisk me off somewhere non-too-exotic like a local B&B or, if we were daring enough, or more likely he just couldn't wait, a secluded dark alley or doorway.

This time I get a slightly better class of hotel. We actually have to sign in. I couldn't very well ask 'well, who am I to you?' in front of the woman behind the desk, could I. So I let him sign, trying to make out the letters in that quickie, spur-of-the-fuck signature, and hoped I'd got it vaguely right.

"So what was our name again?" I hissed quietly, as you led me up the first flight stairs to our room for the night. A whole night for once. "Ficklehubby?"

The tug of his hand almost dragged me as I tottered on my heels up the second flight. Fuck, he was really in need of getting in me tonight. I half expected him to stop on one landing, regardless of other people who may pass us. Visions of me stuttering, "Go-oo-ood ev-eve-ni-ning..." to stray couples not knowing where to look, as he hefted my thighs apart over the bannister and ram-raided my cunt without a care. At least I have some manners.

"Fuck buddy." He replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Of course. Silly me. Mr and Mrs Fuck Buddy. A contradiction in terms. The committed non-committals. Face palm. How could I assume otherwise?

He unlocks the door hurriedly, doesn't even bother to turn the light on before locking it again with a definite 'Do Not Fucking Disturb - Indiscriminate Shagging in Progress' slam. Before my eyes get accustomed to the darkness, I'm dragged across the room and thrown on the bed. How did he know where it was? Has he been here before? And if so, with whom?

I don't get to ponder anymore as the big strong hand that had twisted me onto the unseen sheets pins me down, while the other seeks me out. Tugging at my dress and his own clothes as one. Unzipped in blind haste. Panties tugged down. Hems lifted. My body violated. Quickly. Harshly. Intensely.

Excuse me, Mr Indiscriminate Shag? Mr Committed Fuck Buddy? Mr One-Trick-Wonder? Mind if I join in too? It's always breathtakingly fierce. Penetrating. Physical. Visceral. Gut-wrenching. Orgasms of experienced athleticism. Climaxes of exquisite fitness. But just body not soul. He doesn't like it when I suggest there's more to fucking than just a different position every now and then. I'd like to think I am more than a utensil. Have more than just one purpose beyond playing catch for his cum, now matter how it pleasurably scrapes every nerve, every fibre, with extremely blissful potency.

As I lie there, twitching with orgasmic shock, shuddering from his sexual spite, mind whirling with a thousand million responding nerves that finally merge into one fantastic feeling beginning between my thighs and disappearing through the infinity of sensation under my belly, I ask, "Am I capable of more?"

Of course I fucking am!

Come here, you gorgeous uncaring control freak. Come to mamma!

He's lying on his back, panting and gasping. Seemingly satisfied. He likes, loves, needs that urgency. Perhaps proving to himself he's a sex god, but the road to my hell is paved with his godless intensity.

I might not want commitment but shit, I want something more out of our fucking!

He usually needs a few minutes to recover and get hard again. I'm usually recovering as well. Letting the pain of his forceful fucking melt into something more pleasurable. It always does, otherwise I wouldn't come back for more.

Two can play at that game.

Still shaking but trying to direct that nerve-shattering, knee-trembling, giddy-go-dizzy post-orgasmic energy into a match for his wildness. I drag myself over him, straddle his thighs, caress his limp wet cock in my hands so it has no option but to stiffen and come to life.

His head rolls on the pillow towards me, "What are you doing?"

Like he doesn't know. I don't answer but use my tongue in more skillful ways than mere words, running it slowly up one side of his now hard dick. Tasting myself on him until it finds the lingering sweetness of his spunk still oozing from the tip.

There's a sharp hard tap from his hand on the side of my head, meant to dissuade me, stop me, but I don't. My lips press their attack. I draw breath, suck the residue of his cum from his cock. Under me I feel him twitch and jerk now. He may profess to not liking hand or blowjobs, says he doesn't like cumming in my mouth, but he'll reap the pleasure it gives, whether he likes it or not.

There's another more vicious slap through my hair. I grip the base of his cock and give it some meaningful jerks and rubs. Alternating between my mouth and palm. Suck, rub, lick, jerk. And repeat. And...

I sense his hand go to strike me again but my lack of experience is more than compensated by the fantasies of doing this to him. Doing it so well that his arm loses its motivation and his hand claws the sheets instead. His body writhes as I bring his cock to a pinnacle of throbbing stiffness and it spasms his cum onto my tongue. I keep sucking, lips tight over his hot twitching skin and veins. Keep massaging, my hands together over his cock in a prayer of passion. And as he is so spent, his body and cock going limp like a puppet whose strings have been cut, I lick his dick like a kitten lapping on his milk.

"Shiiiiiiiiiiiittt!!!" is all his dry, hoarse voice can gasp.

I'm not even going to bother asking if he liked that. He never asks if I like his harsh fucking, just assuming my return is compliment enough. I'll be back.

And despite his look of disdain after, I'm sure he will be too...