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…

Juice FM

The best part of fighting is…

When I was a kid I hated fighting. My role in my family, such as it was, was as the ‘reasonable’ one. I’d like to say reasonable child but that would kind of suggest that there were reasonable adults around. There were not. My mum and dad’s divorce was bitter. My mum thought she had the upper hand because although my dad, largely on his own, had paid for the house, she had the kids so got to keep the house until I turned 18 which when I was four was a long, long way away. My mum’s argument with my dad was simple. She wanted to move to a more expensive area, make herself middle class. Think Hyacinth Bucket. My dad on the other hand, after becoming an outright homeowner, wanted to enjoy life, take holidays, trips to Alton Towers and generally give the lot of us a nice childhood. With Maggie as her role model, think breaking the miners, out the door my dad went, divorce papers handed to him, off to a shitty rented room with a landlady, if memory serves correctly who was 75 if she was a day complete with about ten cats and two dogs. That was his punishment and the nervous breakdown that followed for not agreeing to her terms.

 

 

 

His revenge was awesome. When he got better, and it did take some time because he had been married to her for 14 years, he did well and truly get his own back. He got a better job which meant more money which meant nicer everything. Cars, house, clothes, holidays, everything. To this day I still like BMWs because he got a silver one around this time. He lived it up; he used to drive past my mum when it was raining, when she had bags and bags of shopping from Somerfield as it was then, smile and wave. He didn’t just leave her to it; he left the lots of us, brought up the family of his then girlfriend and had a very nice life indeed, not least because he was in the pub four nights of each and every week. In fact he spent so much time in the pub during my childhood and teenage years that if ever my mum wanted to communicate with him she would send me to his local and get me to pass a message on.

 

 

 

Yep, my dad left my mum with the kids and the house just as she wanted and rubbed his new found good life right in her face; her anger at her plan backfiring in a way she never imagined knew no bounds. He wasn’t suffering as she had hoped, he wasn’t suffering at all, he had never been so happy. Over joyed isn’t stretching the term. It was her suffering now and didn’t we all know it. With no husband to make miserable she set about making her children miserable. And by miserable I mean that every time my dad drove past her in the rain, smiling and waving as she struggled with too many bags of shopping, from that point onwards, with every step taken from that moment till she trundled home her anger would mount. When she got home she started looking for targets. Which one of her kids would she strangle and batter today? It didn’t really matter, it could have been any one of us, she wasn’t fussy in that way. My older brother, who I, in no affectionate manner, have, since being a kid, referred to as ‘Satan’ did not react well to these indiscriminate beatings. When he got big and strong with no small help from steroids he became much more vicious than my mother could ever hope to be. He is my mother’s favourite because no son could she have produced more in her own image. He smashed the house up and whoever got in his way on a disturbingly regular basis. It was both funny and awful but more awful really to have the police round the house every second week and to be part of THAT family. You know the type, the one that drags house prices down.

 

 

 

While I was never my mother’s favourite target for battery, like I said she didn’t really have a favourite, it was always whoever was closest and I always had the good sense to hide in my bedroom. However I was my brother’s target of choice. I am not saying he didn’t hit my other brother, because he did and hard but I was the one he wanted to break. While I don’t wish to play at amateur psychologist I’ve started, in recent years, to think the reason he smacked me around was because he couldn’t hit my mother. He wouldn’t hit my mother, not because the knuckle dragging, Rockport wearing vocabulary of 600, missing part of link chav would believe it was wrong but because he knew he would do it once and in ten seconds flat he would be homeless. He could, on the other hand, hit his little sister to his heartless content. It wasn’t like anyone cared and it wasn’t like I stood a chance. I am six years younger than him, half his size, no more than seven stone at the time. All in all it’s pretty easy to twat a girl like that around. Oh and yes, I did tell a teacher when they were shouting at me yet again for being late and only having 13% attendance and yes they did do something. Social services did get involved; they removed me from my mum’s house and only let me go back once my mother assured them that my older brother had moved out. He moved back in ten days later. I kept my mouth shut after that point, not feeling particularly protected by the child protection register I had been placed on.

 

 

 

What I find extraordinary is that it’s not the beatings per se that I remember. There were obviously a few standout ones that were of note either because they were more vicious than usual or absolutely degrading but it’s not the physical violence that is really echoed on my memory. It is feeling embarrassed. I remember going to the pub with my first boyfriend when I was 15, hidden away in a dark corner because I in no way looked old enough to be in there. Maybe I was jumpy or something because I remember that boyfriend very clearly turning to me and saying ‘being out with you is like being out with a battered woman.’ I wanted the ground to swallow me up whole. I felt so embarrassed. Guess some things are harder to hide than others but God knows I was trying. It is fucking hard work, make no mistake about it, hiding being a nervous wreck and it took more energy, in the end, than I had to spare. I was a burn out by the time I was 17.

 

 

 

Mind you on the upside at least he referred to me as a woman. That was quite nice of him given I looked 12. However as my research partner has said that made the whole relationship even more wrong given this boyfriend was 21 at the time. He has used the word ‘paedo’ on more than one occasion. Funnily enough so did my major friend. When that was first said to me I was adamant that the relationship I had with this guy, and it lasted 2 years, wasn’t like that. However, now I am a bit older I am starting to wonder, what did a grown man want with a kid who looked every bit a kid? If me being an innocent, vulnerable, childlike virgin were the things that got his rocks off then that is sick. Not that I am traumatized by the experience, the sex was fucking fantastic. In fact the sex became, in the end, the only reason I stayed with him for so long. He realized this in the end, when we split he said I had only been using him for sex. I lied and said it wasn’t all about the sex because I didn’t want to upset him anymore than I already was. And it wasn’t a complete lie; the sky TV in his bedroom was also a draw. I don’t want it to sound like I didn’t care for this guy because I did, there were feelings and there was friendship, there just wasn’t love on my part because I didn’t have the energy to love at that that age. Like I said, burn out at 17.

All I knew was that I had to save myself, no one was coming to help, there was no rescue party on its way, it was on me. I had to do it. I wanted out because he was pressuring me into getting engaged and that didn’t fit with my plans of getting the fuck away from my brother for good. Moving in with my boyfriend wasn’t nearly far enough away. I wanted to be somewhere where he could never find me and there was no chance what so ever of bumping into him. Even to this day the sound of his voice makes me want to vomit. I knew I would never become the person I could become if I stayed in spitting distance of him.

 

 

 

Anyway I don’t think my research partner can talk about age. When he was 15 he was shagging a 32 year old woman who had been his childhood babysitter, in what way is that any better? Like, what the fuck? Was she eying him up at seven when he was playing with toy guns, rubbing her hands with grubby intent, thinking to herself ‘One day cutie pie, one day.’ I mean she was 32 for fucks sake. I was in town weeks ago and I got a poppy off two boy cadets. They were about 15. I thought how cute with their little berets and everything, just like the one I had when I was a cadet. I did not think, ooh, hold me down, lovely fresh meat there, I’d love to jump their bones and break them in. No, no, I did not think this. This is because I am an adult woman and I am attracted to adult men, not little boys who should be playing on PlayStations and fuck all else.

 

 

 

Anyway I am not, as a general rule, a big fan of fighting. I fight when I have to and I don’t take on battles I can’t win. Think of me more as a happy, smiling sort of girl, I am at my most happy when everyone is getting along. For this reason the odd spats I have been having with my research partner that the last two posts document have troubled me. I know he isn’t mad at me (at least I am fairly sure he isn’t) and the reason we have been sniping at each other is because we have been catching each other at bad times. His job role in the army has dramatically increased and the poor man is exhausted. Given that he has been so stressed, what I decided he needed more than anything was a holiday. I also thought it would be nice to take an imaginary break because the best part of fighting is of course making up. So while I don’t think the army are going to give him time off anytime soon to go to Mauritius in our heads that was where we headed.

 

 

 

So while I waited for my research partner to call I slipped on my favourite turquoise bikini and got myself into the holiday spirit. I imagined what it would be like to go skinny dipping in an actual ocean as opposed to my normal haunt, the local canal after a night out on the beer. I know, I think I quite like getting my tits out as well.

Anyway on that note, I was very much in the mood when my research partner called. Straight to it, I didn’t feel the need for any polite chit chat, I asked him to imagine lying naked on a deserted sun drenched beach. I could tell by his soothed reaction that this was just the kind of break he needed. The naked bit was his idea, apparently so he told me, he does that on holiday. Never in my life have I seen a naked man on a beach, I’m not objecting, game on if they are fit; I have just never seen it. According to my research partner stripping off on beaches has worked in his favour and by this he means he has cheerfully lay there, topping up his all over tan, rubbing sun lotion in and he has been approached by various women for sex. ‘What is a man to do but give the girls what they want? Yes Alfie. Quite.

 

 

 

So there we were, together on a hot sticky deserted beach, he a bit sunburnt and me in my favourite bikini, well at least the bottoms, I might like to flash but that doesn’t include everything. Aftersun lotion to hand, me very willing and more than able to soothe his raw scorched skin. I started with his thighs, gently massaging the cream in, just gentle enough not to cause his baked flesh too much pain but firm enough not to tickle. As I massaged each thigh in turn I turned my attention to my research partner’s chest. Tease, he laughed, laughing because he wouldn’t have it any other way. Like a lot of men he likes his nipples tugged and played with and that I can relate to. In the midst of hot horny actual real life fucks I have had in the past I have been known, in the heat of the moment, to demand, not ask, I mean demand, that my sexual partner bite down on one of my nipples. I have no idea what that is about, when not super horny that idea does nothing for me except wince but in that moment, just for that second, that added pain is as erotic as fuck and makes me cum extra specially hard.

 

 

 

Tease my research partner I continued to do. With his words and suggestions I could tell he wanted me to get quicker than I wanted to, to the point where I pay attention, in no particular order, to his cock, balls, perineum and arse. I was in no mood to rush, this was a holiday after all and no one rushes when they are on holiday. That is the whole point of taking them. So I took my sweet leisurely time as I soothed his sunburn and as I toyed with him as well as his nipples. I did cheekily describe my tongue lingering on the tip of his cock just for a second which made him declare slightly more forcefully this time that I was in fact a tease. If only he didn’t love it!

 

 

 

However, all this teasing had made me a very horny girl indeed, I could no longer ignore how wet I had become nor the ache from my pussy, my pussy was insisting that I do something to satisfy its desires. Luckily, like all good girl scouts I had come prepared with a handy selection of toys. Fuck shoes, I have discovered amassing a collection of sex toys is the way forward (Think PlayStation for girls, a show that can also entertain boys as well as any shoot em up game). I knew which one I wanted, the new one with fresh batteries, turned up to full speed. This was not an occasion where there was any need to take things slow. I placed it against my pussy much to my clits delight, I let it rock back and forth while I got back to my research partner, who was hard, and needed a graphic vulgar description of a good hard rhythmic wank. As his voice changed, deeper and slower he was clearly turned on, it was time for him to hear me satisfy myself utterly. To slam my toys deep inside my pussy that was nothing short of pleading for it by this point. I knew I was going to come hard and fast as I rammed that toy deep and hard inside myself. My research partner at first said he was just going to listen to me cum but not cum himself so we could keep going a bit longer into the night. However, he said I was screaming so loud he couldn’t help, resist as he tried, to do anything other than cum. And fall asleep two minutes later. Bless him, the man’s overworked. A good holiday was just what he needed!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Teaching me a lesson

My research partner has been somewhat annoyed with me of late. Over the summer, without essays, exams and research projects to fake findings for (well you can work out from past research what the numbers are supposed to look like so repeating the same stuff appears a bit pointless to me) he has had me pretty much at his beckoned call. I was always available to him for late night fun and frolics. However, now uni is back in session I have fresh calls on my time. Not just in the form of essays and reading but from other friends who, I’d like to think, also enjoy my company. As a consequence of this for one arranged session with my research partner I was asleep and for another there was a complete communication breakdown so I wasn’t around for that one either, I went to the pub instead. My research partner was not impressed at my unavailability so he decided to teach me a lesson.

 

 

The scenario planned involved two sixth formers, a boy in lower sixth suggestively seduced by a sexy student from the year above. The whole thing was supposed to kick off in the common room with me, as the older more experienced student asking the less experienced lower sixth boy if he needed help with his coursework or anything else, hint, hint, for that matter. She, after all, had done the work the year before so she knew what she was doing and not just with the coursework. She felt sure she could find plenty of ways to help him, in fact she could take him back to her house where, as luck would have it, her parents were out, take him into her bedroom and if she could just bend over far enough she was sure she could dig out her old course work from the bottom of her drawers. He would find exactly what he needed there.

 

 

It should have been a straight forward session. Note the use of the word should but as I said earlier my research partner was determined to teach me a lesson. And if the man sets out to do something he does it, no ifs, buts, maybes or excuses, it gets done. I will give you an example of just how stubborn and determined he is. Years ago he was on a training exercise, the word to pay attention to here is training. He wasn’t in a warzone, his life nor anyone elses was on the line. It was just practice but when the person in charge told him to treat it like it was a warzone he took that instruction and followed it to the letter. Everything was going just tickety boo fine, nice sunny day and all that, bit of a jolly, until a dog from the other side caught a whiff of his scent. The dog was a highly trained valuable part of the other side’s team and no doubt a much loved companion of its handler. Given that it was a training exercise the sensible thing to do would have been to let the dog catch him, for my research partner to have a giggle and resign himself to the fact that you can’t win them all. Had he done that no one would have died. The dog did catch up with him but my research partner wasn’t going to be taken alive and certainly not by a fucking dog so as the dog is chomping down on his arm he is meanwhile knifing the poor sod to death for doing the job it is trained to do. He left the dog for dead, he didn’t have enough time to escape and put it out of it’s misery so it did suffer for some time.

 

 

However, he did successfully complete the exercise, not quite in one piece mind as the dog, prior to its slow painful death, had managed to take a huge chunk out of his arm and left him with nerve damage that still troubles him to this day. I know it is important to win things and I freely admit I am a competitive little sod myself, I don’t like to be beaten but there are limits. I wouldn’t sacrifice a chunk of any of my limbs to win anything. Clearly its not all about the death, pain and damage, it’s the winning that counts. Silly me. I bet there were men holding the distraught handler down when my research partner eventually rocked up at base camp. I can just imagine my research partner, pissing with blood as the handler is screaming at him, tears flowing ‘It was my fucking dog you bastard!’

 

 

So as you can see determined and stubborn are words you could reasonably use to describe my research partner. So when he set out to teach me a lesson he was pretty much going to do just that and he did that by being as difficult as he could manage. He made it tough for me to keep the scenario on track and to get it to where it needed to go, which was, as planned, the sixth formers bedroom. Here she planned to show the boy all about what girls like, how when they unbutton their school shirts they reveal firm perky tits encased and pushed up by cute little bras. How their tiny knickers can be seen as they bend over in their too short for anywhere, never mind school, skirts.All girls have worn such attire. In fact at my school the uniform for the girls was red dresses, who else thinks that wrong? 15 year old girls all wandering round school in tight red mini dresses, talk about turning us all into little lolitas. Granted some of the girls at my school didn’t need much help, there was one girl who had the most massive tits who would wear her very short red dress without a bra. I don’t think she had to do a scrap of coursework that year because there was a queue of horny little lads all too eager to do it for her as they stared down the front of her dress that concealed not very much. Nothing against the girl, her tits were ace. I looked on with envy in the showers, looking at my tits, and we are talking nipples on ribs here, and thinking grow you bastards, grow! Just do something so I can at least have something, anything to put in a wonderbra. They changed the uniform the very next year.

 

 

The sixth former also planned to show this young boy how girls like to play with boys, making them hard and eager, wrapping their fingertips firmly and tightly around their cock as they move their hands up and down over and over again, applying cream so the experience is slippery, slick and oh so satisfying. She also planned to go into quite some detail about what girls do to please themselves sexually, think show and tell with the aid of a vibrator. She planned to describe vividly for the young school boy just how hard and how rough she liked to fuck herself with said vibrator. As you can see I had mapped the whole thing out, I had put some thought into it, not least because I did feel bad that I hadn’t been around previously when my research partner had called. The problem was my research partner, excuse the pun, wasn’t playing ball. I will give some examples.

 

 

When the scenario began I approached the young inexperienced boy my research partner was playing and asked him if he would like some help with his coursework? No was the reply, no reason, just no. Alrighty then (Ace Ventura Style), why don’t you want any help? I don’t like girls. I responded ‘ Do you like boys then?’ Fine I thought, if it’s that time of the month and he wants a homoerotic experience we can go there if we must (Game of Top Gun Volleyball anyone? A homoerotic film with a heterosexual subtext if ever there was one). But no, he didn’t like boys either, he didn’t like anyone. Okay dokey then, doesn’t it get lonely I asked? No, was the answer, I have pet snails. Ah ha I thought, so you like pets, I have a pussy that would love to meet you. All he had to do was come back to my place where she will be waiting to say hello. In the end my research partner relented, he went back to the girls place as part of the role play. This is because while he is a stubborn man he is also a very horny man. This is why it is important for girls to make friends with a man’s cock. That’s because even if its owner is annoyed with you he is still your friend. And why wouldn’t the cock still be your friend? No other girl has ever paid him so much attention, really thought about his needs, really got to know him for him, no bullshit, no games, just really taken the time to understand him, made him feel loved and cared for. So while his owner is annoyed with you the cock is thinking, fuck you mate, I am off to see MY best friend, got a problem with that? No, didn’t think so. Besides by the time the cock has cum a few times the owner’s brain has been flooded with that many happy chemicals, the desire to drift off to a contented sleep becoming oh so strong the owner’s brain has completely forgotten what it was in a tis about in the first place. Important life lesson here. Make friends with the person in charge. If you want to achieve anything you need the organ grinder in your corner, not the monkey

 

 

On this subject I was seeing a rugby player on and off for about a year. It was on and off because I was going through a difficult spell so I cut off contact with him for a while. When I got my shit together I decided to surprise this rugby lad and announce my return by turning up at his club on a day I thought he would be practicing. However he wasn’t practicing, he was off at another club playing a match. I rang him up, told him where I was. His instructions were very clear. I was not to talk to any of the remaining lads who were there, under no circumstances let them buy me a drink. He was on his way, in fact he did say if the guy driving the coach didn’t start driving a mite bit fucking faster he was going to kick the guy off and drive the thing himself. And why didn’t he want me talking to the lads there? Because he said, he knew what they were like. I was laughing my head off, could it be because he knew what he was like I asked? ‘Precisely’ he said. This is a clear example of how a man’s cock does the thinking from time to time. He should have been mad at me for disappearing from his life, told me to fuck off. Did he hell because his cock was in charge at that particular moment. In fact he never said a word on the subject, except to say he was glad I was back.

 

 

And you have got to love rugby lads. I worked as a barmaid for a time in a pub where big groups of them would come in on a Friday and Saturday night. So it would generally be just me on my own with them as my boss would make the excuse he had paperwork to do. You can manage can’t you? He always used to ask not waiting for a reply. It was just me and them, one of me, lots of them. I felt like prey, all the other girls who worked there refused point blank to work a shift with these lads on their own.The other girls wanted danger money, a bouncer at the very least. I don’t know what on earth they thought that would achieve. One solitary bouncer on his own against a large group of big, burly, built like a brickshit house rugby lads who each and every week get routinely hurt on a pitch, you know, for fun. The bouncer would have had more reason to be worried than we did. However, manage I did because I quickly started to understand how groups of rugby players function. There is always a leader. Always. So if you can take him out with a few sarcastic comments which the rest of the group think are hysterical he is no longer their leader. Take this guy out I had to, he was the ringleader of a group of horny little wolves who saw me as nothing more than a tasty bit of meat. So while said leader goes off into a corner before the big bad mean 9 stone size 8 GIRL makes him cry into his Stella the rest of the group make you their defacto leader for the night. And once you have this position you can make the whole group do anything and I mean absolutely anything. Sit, stand, bark, fetch, chase a ball. Absolutely anything. I am not a bitch and I have no desire to make any man my bitch. In fact I could not think of anything I would like less. I do like men and enjoy their company. These guys as individuals were often lovely. I knew this because sometimes they would come in for a beer and chat on their own on day shifts I did on a Sunday afternoon. However when they are in a big group, fuelled by 15 pints of stella and god knows how many shots a little girl like me on her own needs to watch her back and her arse and her tits. I did what I had to survive my shift. It was me or them and it wasn’t going to be me.

 

 

On one such night my boss, who was ex-Navy so we got on, made an appearance. He saw that despite how many of them there were I had the thing well and truly in hand. He was pissing himself, asked how far I thought I could take things. I laughed back, and said ‘All the way, baby!’ He asked for a rum and this meant the bottle, settled himself down and declared watching this was better than the match anyway! This experience taught me that you don’t have to be big and hard to be a leader you just have to be funny. That and wear a low cut top. These rugby lads were so busy laughing and drooling that I could maintain some sort of order. One of the group told me as he ordered a round, ‘I wank about you’ I thought I am sure you do mate, I am sure you do, now could you pretty please collect some glasses for me, I can’t keep up with the way you lot drink. Make no mistake, tits and arse really do sell beer and if your funny, well it’s a dead cert profits are going to be up. In this respect my dad has trained me well, to compete with him when he is on form you have to be at the level of a stand up comedian.

 

 

Back to what I was talking about, by the time my research partner and I have reached the part of the fantasy where the school girl was doing a strip tease for the young school boy my normal research partner had been returned to me by what ever aliens had temporarily abducted him for tests. Everything needless to say went great from this point. He enjoyed it as the sixth former slowly undressed him and applied cream to his cock, that was chaffed through over zealous teenage boy wanking. He was more than happy for the teenage girl to take off her cardigan to reveal a very tight white shirt which barely caged her bulging cleavage, happier still as she undid buttons so he could see still more of those perky tits and nipples that showed evidence of becoming hard. As the bra came off, the groan he let escape made that young girl just that bit wetter so, pulling her knickers to one side she lightly ran her fingers over her pussy so she could offer him her finger and let him taste her excitement. She used her pussy juice so that her fingers would be slippery when she next wrapped them around his cock, firmly wanking him up and down to his delight.

 

 

However, his delight was about to become somewhat more intense from the sheer pleasure of being sucked hard and rhythmically by an older girl who knew exactly what she was doing as she took him deep into her mouth. She let the boy shoot his load into her mouth, planning to show him next how she liked to slam her tight wet cunt hard with her toy in anticipation of round two when he got hard again and ready to fuck her pussy in much the same savage animalistic raw horny manner she was using with her toy. As the scenario moved to talk of grinding and fucking, with the girls legs wrapped firmly around the boys waist it became clear my research partner was cuming again. The young girl encouraged this by telling him she wanted to feel his cum shoot deep inside her, tipping him over the edge into an explosive orgasm. So explosive he was asleep five minutes after but at least he did manage to clean up the bucket load of cum he shot out before he drifted quickly to the land of nod. The teenage children were no longer children in need. A post about a school girl and a school boy was the closest thing I could come up with to mark the event of children in need.

 

 

Let’s hit it ….. I mean the books silly.

 

 

All this studying has made me hot.

 

 

That’s better. Are you better?

 

Well Biology is a school lesson :)

Looking for Mr. Horny Devil

When I was a kid I loved Halloween. I took it seriously. You can blame J.K Rowling for that, Harry Potter has a lot to answer for, as do my parents. Given how dysfunctional my childhood was I don’t think, in retrospect, it was any wonder that I enjoyed pretending to be someone, anyone else. So in my bid for a bit of escapism, I would spend all the pocket money I got putting together a Halloween costume, a costume that more often than not consisted of black bin bags cellotaped together with stuck on pieces of kitchen foil in the shapes of half moons and stars. Yep, I loved dressing up when I was small and as this blog is testimony to, now that little girl is all grown up she still loves playing pretend, its just the adults call it role play these days and unlike when I was a child the fun to be had is entirely more saucy. The get off isn’t coming up with a clever costume like creating a transformer get up from cardboard boxes and paint nicked from the school art rooms, the get off these days is to be had behind my closed bedroom door and is, as you know, far far naughtier.

In honour of my favourite holiday I persuaded my research partner to take part in a Halloween themed scenario. I am not sure persuade is the right word however. In my bid to be organised I did sent him one text and the word ‘one’ is the key word to remember, I sent him one text to check his availability over the weekend which he didn’t reply to. When he did get in touch he did mention that he did get the text only he referred to it as a text that ‘bordered on desperation’ His words, desperate? One text is desperate? Can you tell I didn’t, at first, find his comment in any way funny but you can bet he thought it was fucking hilarious. Needless to say this particular role play session didn’t get off to a good start, as my research partner said he had heard of angry sex he had just never had it before. But the back biting and sniping that we exchanged does illustrate a point I read about not so long back. People think love and hate are set in opposition to each other but when you think about it the opposite to love is never hate, its indifference. You still have to care in order to pour in the energy necessary to hate someone, when you are indifferent you don’t, as the word suggests, give a shit. My point is this, if someone can wind you up as much as my research partner and I wind each other up it is because, as friends, we care about each other. Everyone say ah. Keep saying ah as I get down and dirty and tell you all the explicit raunchy details of what, excuse the pun, went down in this Halloween themed instalment of our phone sex chat.

So okay, okay this session didn’t start off with the usual sexual sizzle I describe to you, but in the end it did go with a bang from below the waist. The scenario went as follows. My research partner and I were at a fancy dress party and that, I as a naughty, naughty witch would seduce and entice the shy little devil my research partner had come as, making him, with all my spooky charms, wicked curves and love potions a very Mr horny devil indeed. As Mr horny devil my research partner very much enjoyed playing hard to get, refusing my initial advances to sit at my spooky table and get to know each other in the devilishly wicked ways I could show him. I even offered to show him exactly what I could do with my broomstick but to no avail. He wanted to make me work hard for this one which is of course exactly what any self respecting devil would do.

Eventually I did manage to lure him away to my seclude little coven, with it being the witching’ hours all the other witches were out. Here I undressed him just enough to apply an extra special love potion concocted just for him. And his cock did like it when this sweet smelling potion was rubbed onto the shaft of his cock, from base to head and smoothed all over his swollen balls that were lightly cupped and squeezed as the potion was applied. And the potion was indeed potent, the naughty witch could tell she had out done herself in conjuring up the mixture from the faint moan of pleasure that escaped from the resisting little devil, she could also tell how much in need of attention the horny devil was in by how tense his thighs were and how much relief he experienced as she pressed her finger tips deep into his flesh in order to relax those tight burning muscles.

As they both noted being very bad as witches and devils are, was a stressful business. They both had to find all kinds of naughty ways to unwind when their dastardly endeavours were done for the day. The horny little devil was very interested in how the naughty witch destressed herself. As she told him when the other witches were in the coven they helped each other relax, rubbing potion into each other’s bodies, from the neck, shoulders, hands cupping pert full tits until they moved down to the stomach. Then lower still, stroking and squeezing tight arses, fingertips finding their way to wet tight pussies that ached for attention and swollen clits that begged to be touched. ‘What,’ the excitable horny devil asked, ‘did the naughty witch do when the other witches were out?’ ‘Well,’ she said ‘when she was alone and felt the need to relax and release some tension she had a box of magic toys she used on herself. ‘Where on herself?’ The now very horny devil asked. ‘On her cunt of course!’ was the naughty witches reply. The horny devil asked the naughty witch to describe her cunt so she did, she told him it was small and tight, always shaved and symmetrical, with a small pink clit that wasn’t so small but instead swollen and enlarged when she herself was horny and in need of sexual relief. The horny devil wanted to hear more about her clit so asked her to touch it and then let him taste her sweet wetness. She readily agreed and once he had tasted her she showed him just how excitable they could both become watching her play with her clit with one of her special magic toys.

The horny devil was eager to be told just how she played with herself, pressing the toy hard into her clit as her pussy responded with a gush of wetness, in readiness for the toy to be slammed deep inside her. So turned on was she that she couldn’t bear to play with her clit for too long, her cunt begged to be filled and she soon gave in. Screaming with pleasure and relief as she rammed it deep inside, harder and harder she banged herself with it knowing she was going to cum very quickly from sheer sexual need. The horny devil had much the same need as he wanked himself hard to the sound track of the naughty witches cries. They both came quickly, orgasms intensified by the prior disagreement they had before they became the naughty witch and Mr. horny devil respectively.

So that’s what I got up to this Halloween, How was yours? The link below I hope is suitably in keeping with the Halloween holiday spirit.

Voodoo Child

 

 

 

Fancy getting naughty with me?

 

 

Since it is Halloween, I thought my pussy  could make an appearance !!

Politically Sexy

I cheered along last week with Ed Milliband’s speech. There was nothing in it I disagreed with. I nodded, I clapped, I got wet and horny because finally there is someone in charge of the Labour Party who speaks my language. Someone who has a vision and more importantly a plan for a new and better future. A good society? Oh yes please. Its what we need, New Labour fucked up by branding itself diet Tory, it adopted Conservative ideas of deregulation, Thatcherite lets leave it to the market policies  that have led squarely to this fine economic mess we find ourselves in. Yep, it was a fuck up. No point saying otherwise. However the Tories plan of more of the same is barking. What is the definition of madness? Doing the same things over and over again and expecting a different result.

Ed Milliband is right to fight for change. I predict that when, in two or three years time the doomed from the start Con-Dem-nable fiasco of a Government we have now crumbles under the weight of its own insurmountable ideological conflicts, a  renewed, re-engerised sparkly different, perhaps, fingers crossed, a more old school Labour will storm the election. You do have to wonder what was going through Nick Clegg’s mind when he did his deal with the devil and agreed to form the coalition. What chance did it ever have when the two parties are ideologically opposed ? The history books do kind of say quite clearly it can’t work and it won’t work. You have to wonder where were his friends ? Why didn’t someone give him a gentle nudge in the ribs and say ‘Maybe not mate’?

Not that I am complaining about Clegg’s own goal, I happen to think he has done Labour a huge favour. Given the party a chance to regroup and rethink. In fact carry on doing a bad job Cameron, use the recession as a vehicle to push through your right wing agenda, make all your cuts to front line services, fuck how many soliders die because numbers have been cut, same for the police, fuck all that so long as you get your way and push this country so far to the right people are clinging over the edge for their lives. I hope the collapse of your Government is both spectacular and spectacularly painful. Team Milliband is waiting to pick up the pieces and its going to happen faster than you think. 

I do see the Tories as the enemy and they are, make no mistake unless you want a fractured broken future for Britain. A future, mad max style, where the rich get richer and everyone else suffers. A Britain where access to education is based on an ability to pay rather than ability. It’s not hard to imagine how bad things could get, look at the States. We take for granted, as UK citizens, that we can, thanks to Old Labour, see a doctor whenever we need to. If the Tories could get away with it don’t think for one second this would remain the case. No, we would all be paying for our own health care more and more until one day you would wake up and realise you are blind because you cannot afford treatment. The insurance company won’t pay out because they define your diabetes as a pre-existing condition. It happens everyday to countless Americans. If you want a UK without libraries, parks, welfare for those genuinely in need (and that could be you one day), a broken down NHS and shit schools vote Tory. Hell, why not go the whole hog and subscribe to the Daily Mail? It’s a bonus if you don’t have an education when you read papers like that and The Express anyway. It makes their bullshit easier to swallow without being sick.

I had to laugh when I heard a story about the Millibands, apparently when one of them was an undergraduate their dads work featured heavily on one of their reading lists. How cool would that be! Ring, ring, ‘Dad, my mates and I are a bit unsure about what you meant here, go over it for us, this is the essay question.’ I compare this to my own circumstances. My dad is a klepto. No seriously he is. He steals from B & Q, put one bit of pipe inside another bit and it really does become buy one get one free. He’s nicked from Greggs. One day I was queuing up inside a very busy Greggs for a cheese pasty (they are the best!), I innocently turned to my dad and asked if he wanted anything. I should have realised something was up, when he was smiling like a cheshire cat, ‘No, no, I am fine’ he said. We got outside and he cheerfully pulls out a chicken club baguette. He very much enjoyed his free lunch, I could tell. However, you have not heard the best of it yet. He has been known to steal from a charity shop. A CHARITY SHOP. As in one day we were having a look round  and when we got outside he gleefully showed me his swag. The look on my face must have said it all because he just pointed to the sign ‘Help the Aged’ and shrugged his shoulders in an enough said fashion. What can you do? You try to bring them up right, failing that nail stuff down but you can’t watch them twenty fours hours a day now can you? Still at least I am studying something that I understand at University: Crime. I promise you my childhood was pure comedy. Black comedy. I learnt to laugh because crying meant I had no friends.

Speaking of friends I thought I would tell you a little bit about how a nice girl like me ended up having phone sex with her mate. The story is not completely unrelated to the politics I hold. Yep, I sit on the left because I want to live in a fairer society. If Iam financially successful in the future I intend not to use the services of any clever accountant that can get me out of paying forty percentage tax. I will happily pay up because I want others to have the opportunies I have had, for kids in the future, who just like me, have grown up on benefits, to be able to go to university or pursue whatever path is right for them. In years to come I do not want privileged voices to be the only ones that can be heard. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against people who grow up in wealth, no one chooses their parentage but I do want voices like mine around. Just to keep everything honest, to remind them when they feel smug and self satisfied that they would have had to have tried hard to fail. Conveniently enough one of the links at the end of this post will send you to a new comic, well he is new to me anyway. By God he is ever so posh and ever so fucking funny. I have watched this link god knows how many times but I have had to stop because my ribs hurt.

Anyway, I am left wing, I shared my sweets and expressed Marxist ideas long before I understood it was someone else’s concept. My politics stem from the fact I do care about others and it is this caring that led me down the phone sex road.  I shall explain.  A friend of mine, about eighteen months ago, who we will call Major because that’s what he was at the time, was having a hard time. By hard time I mean he had had a leg, half his stomach, two fingers and one ball blown off when he went and saved the lives of three other people he served with. Oh and one innocent child so the word ‘hero’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. When Micheal Moore, in reference to the US military in his home town, says that it is the people who have the least who give the most for their country he is so right. I look at Liverpool. Army Recruitment offices are present in every single town… apart from the affluent ones.

The worse part of my Major friend’s injuries were the stomach problems, so much so he couldn’t eat a lot of foods. He was in permanent pain but couldn’t take anything for his injuries as such medication would have killed him. One day we were chatting about his injuries, he was getting a new leg fitted because he had wrapped the original one around the head of the superior officer who had been fucking his other half while he was having his body parts blown off. You have to love the symbolism, ever a sarcastic bastard my Major friend. Even he admitted he went a bit far tying the guy up and knocking his teeth out with the false leg but would you fuck a girl when her bloke’s nickname is ‘headcase’? No, no you wouldn’t. Anyway in the midst of this conversion he spat out what was on his mind, would I talk dirty to him over the phone one night so he could have a wank and get some sleep? At first I said ‘No, DEFINITELY NO, I just didn’t think I could do it.” 

However, one night I got a phone call at stupid o’clock in the morning, I answered, my friend sounded delirious, explained he hadn’t slept in three days, the pain was bad. In that instance I told him to stick BabeStation on, let me get a coffee, a smoke and then we would get started. I gave the man the best filth I could muster untill he came. He slept for a day, his pain was better, it became a regular thing. I quite enjoyed doing it. I don’t deny it felt good knowing that I was making a real difference to the life of a friend who had had some pretty shitty breaks. Plus I think, not that I know this first hand, that I have made my Major friend a better shag. This is because during the course of the phone sex we had I did impress upon him the importance of foreplay. The joy of the tease, the pleasure of slowly getting there, that the mind has to be turned on for the body to be able to respond, for it to be satisfying.

Now lets fast forward to my current research partner. He also has injuries and more lives than a cat for that matter because he took eleven bullets, still stands on two feet and still does his job in the Army. His boy bits were injuried  in a similar manner and having some experience in this area I did ask one day if he was taking care of himself, rubbing cream in like he is supposed to. He said he wasn’t but he would if I made it fun. At this point I told him the story of why I was no stranger to phone sex and I could make it fun alright. He was a bit surprised because he said he had always believed I was somehow straight laced, a notion we both laugh about now.

This just goes to prove that not every mucky minx shouts about their sexuality. In my real life I keep my sexual self to my self, I don’t discuss what I get up to with people other than with my close friends… oh and you guys. So you can imagine, boyfriends think it is Christmas come thrice when they evenually discover how my dirty dirty brain really works. And having a super tight pussy does not hurt a jot. I do try to put guys at ease, explain that I expect them to cum quick the first few times, its one baby that takes some time to get use to. If you can’t speak openly and honestly with whoever you are sleeping with, be able to laugh then perhaps they should not be sharing your bed. I am a firm believer in getting to know someone before you have sex with them, there is nothing cool or daring about sleeping around, all you are doing is making cheap look expensive. And putting yourself in danger. What if you hook up with a guy and because you know him so well its fine that he has drugged you in preparation for the gangbang him and five of his best mates have in mind? Guys need to careful as well. When you think your luck is in and you get the chance of going back to some Goddess’s place you might also get the chance of handing over all your cash and valuables to that particular goddess’s very big, very hard, male mates. If you want to keep your fingers and teeth. It goes on. 

So that is the story of how a nice girl like me started out in the phone sex world. The reason I decided to do it as a job is because why not make money out of it? When you are poor your options are not your own as I understand all too well, living as I do, in a flat with electrics that might kill me and a kitchen roof that a joiner reckons could fall down at any time… lets hope not on my head, eh?

But I wouldn’t want to mislead you and let you think that all the phone sex sessions my research partner and I engage in are all sexual high jinx and fantasical role play. They do happen and I love telling you about them. However there are a particular type of session that we have that I haven’t yet shared with you. These sessions are chilled out, laughter filled, babestaion on in the background affairs that require nothing more than a generous pot of body lotion. Sometimes the outfit featured in the pictures goes on, sometimes it doesn’t. It depends upon our collective sexual mood.

During these types of sessions I describe how I would massage him in between discussing our days. I tell him how I would cover his cock in endless layers of lotion and circle the base of cock with my fingertips, running my hands up and down, lightly teasing the head with feather light strokes. I describe how I spread his legs and tickle his inner thigh making his balls ache for attention, all while we discuss the different girls on Babestation. Lolly Badcock is a personal favourite, that girl just looks like a good fuck, oozing naughtiness from everyone of her pores. She does it for me because she smiles constantly and has a wicked glint in her eye that just lets you know she could persuade any boy, any girl to be very very bad any day of the week. Lolly would make the most well behaved dog break his leash.

At some point during these sessions after I have described graphically the blow job of his dreams, balls licked and sucked like sweet precious ripe cherries. Legs spread wider still as a hand moves lower teasing his arse until a finger finds its way inside to massage his G spot. All while his cock is sucked with all the deep throat confidence a blow job queen such as myself can bring to the proceedings. And God, giving a blow job makes me feels sexy, if they are tyed up at the time so much the better. I love lying a man down, Kissing his thighs, his stomach, hair ticking his nipples as it flows across his chest. Teasing his thighs apart so I can run my tongue over his balls and play with the skin beneath. The beautiful sight of a rock hard cock is one which I relish, desperate to feel it on my lips, to taste pre cum on my tongue as I tease the head in preparation for taking it deep, deep into my mouth. Long hard slow sucks to begin with, using my tongue to apply pressure to the length as I suck, circling the head with my tongue as I move upwards and then downwards. All until it is time to suck harder and faster, using my hands to wank the base so they feel like their cock is deliciously contained in the warmest tightest, sweetest feeling cunt they could dream of. That reality comes later as I have explained above.

Yep, I love blowjobs. Love them. I think I have even invented a technique all of my own. Its called the helter skelter and works as an appetizer if you will, a tease before the main event. It involves running your tongue from the head to the base in a spiral fashion, just like riding down its namesakes fairground slide. And by God, if its done right, that cock should bloody well want riding by the time it has savoured that particular sexual course.

Of course what I have learned about my research partner is that while he does love hearing exactly what I would do to him what really tips him over the edge is hearing all about what I am doing to myself. How I love to keep at least a pair of ever so pretty and silky knickers on and perhaps wear one of my many pairs of knee high, high heels boots. He loves to hear how I run my toy all over those silky panties, teasing my pussy with the promise of feeling that toy directly against my swollen pink clit at some point soon. He loves to hear how my body shakes when I give my cunt what its is begging for, to listen to the gratifying moan when I slam that toy inside my tight and so so wet pussy. So wet and tight he can hear the tell tale clicky sounds beneanth the ever louder screams as I ram that toy in and out, fucking myself hard, using my other hand to rub my clit back and forth. I am getting so good at turning both of on during these sessions that, much to the delight of my research partner, I often squirt when I come now. My pussy is so wet by the time I have exploded that the inside of my thighs are dripping with sweet juice. The taste and smell of which I love as I enjoy my coffee and smoke that is very much needed after a session like that. We both have to come back down to planet Earth after all. No it wasn’t an earthquake, we are just getting really good at this.

And there you have it. From the response I have had from including pictures with the last post I have decided to make their inclusion a bit more of a regular thing. It seems people liked the last post and you have my research partner’s commanding officer to thank for it. I was having a chat with him, as you do with a two star general and he told my research partner I sounded less scouse and more like I was from the country. From that remark that particular scenario was born. Thanks George. I hope you like Miles Jupp as much as I do and as for the inclusion of the second link ‘I want to be a Popstar’ by James at War. I am having a laugh at myself here. If I could sing, even just a little bit   I SO WOULD. Mind you, given The Saturdays performance during the Help for Heros concert not being able to sing doesn’t appear to be quite the dealbreaker it used to be, Autotune anyone?… mmh I wonder, I can dance.