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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