I am losing her, even though I never had her really.  I always felt older than her, somehow more mature and capable, even as a young child.  I know she felt judged by me and it wasn’t helped by my close connection to my great aunt whose house we lived in for my first seven years, she was, I guess, my child mum, always girlish, and more so these days, light as the summer wind, you noticed when she wasn’t there.

A good looking girl too – the couple of photos I have seen from those days show a serious face, in fact now I think of it she is rarely photographed smiling or laughing from those times and now I know there were so many reasons for that.  Her dementia means the filters are slipping and her fears, her anxieties and ancient losses are what she gives tongue to now, she can’t swallow it anymore.

We had cousins and aunts and uncles to spare but rarely saw them.  Both of my parents came from fractured families.  My dad’s by the early death of his mother from TB which was followed by that of his sister.  His baby sister was placed with his maternal grandparents and the custody battle then ensued over her meant he didn’t see them or the place he had been brought up in again without the censure of his father.  He married again and I was brought up understanding at such a subliminal level that we were not the right grandchildren for the woman we called ‘Nan’.  We were inconvenient reminders of the fact that she was an older bride and mother who had married a widower after the war. There too soon and greedy for her son’s, our step-uncle’s sweets, reading his comics and drinking his Tizer.  My mum’s family were even more distant.  We were told that they weren’t very nice but to be honest thought that this was just our mum being fey again.  Until my uncle’s second marriage where my mum was surrounded by her oldest sister and niece and given a black eye in front of everyone for “Lookng at them.”.  The story that comes out now is heartbreaking .  My mum was sexually abused by my uncle and a friend. It went to court and she refused to speak and so the case was thrown out.  She was 9.

Now when she cries down the phone to me, saying “I can’t do it, I can’t do it.” I know I am hearing not the echoes of that time but the actual sound of her inability to process this level of abuse.  She was physically, emotionally and sexually abused.  Thrown out of her home on the death of her only protector, her father, aged 14. She was not mothered, she was not loved or cared for until she met my dad.

So now, my mum, when faced with not recognising my dad any longer is determined to leave home and find him.  She begs me to call him to ask him to have her back.  She is convinced that every social worker, nurse or doctor that comes to the house is there to ask her about her infidelity. She tells me that she wasn’t a very good mother and I lie and say ‘Yes, you were mum’ because I know what she means.  She knows that she didn’t know what to do.  She knows that she fell short of the unrealistic expectations we have of mothers.  She knows she didn’t teach me to read, or write, or ride a bike. She didn’t take me to museums or art galleries, or church or to the countryside.  She didn’t make me do my homework, or call the school to argue that I should be allowed to take German or even make sure I stayed on to 6th Form, or buy me a driving lessons, or teach me to cook and clean. But that’s because she wasn’t taught any of those things either.

What she did teach me was how to survive against the odds, how to absorb the blows and keep going, how to retreat from the pain of living and switch off your mind via TV.  How to work hard, expect little and receive even less.  And how to get to the end of a life determined to walk home to dad no matter how far.


I picture us in Paris

Apparently it’s good to picture things vividly that you would like to come to pass and so I picture us in Paris.  

We eat breakfast outside a cafe in Montmartre – the Spring sun cutting through clouds and shining on wet streets and into our sheltered corner.  Coffee, dark and sweet, and lovely crusty croissants with apricot jam, or blackcurrant, I don’t care, but His grin as He leans back on His chair and surveys me and the scene, Gaulouises in hand, is the thing I focus on.  We are at home, both happy, we’re doing our thing.
There will be a home for me.  Comfortable and sorted.  Wooden and tiled floors and rugs with a well supplied kitchen with a range. Two dogs and a cat to snooze in front of it and for the evenings when I curl up with my head in His lap and He strokes my hair, an open fire or wood burner.  There is no damp to Mar the beauty and it smells beautiful, of wood, and orange and lavender.  Painted furniture and soft leather sofas with feather cushions fill the rooms with art on the walls.  Beds have a head and footboard just right for tying and 100 thread Eqyptian white cotton bedlinen soothsayer us to sleep.   There is a sense of the past brought to the present and enjoyed.

We travel to snow painted fur trees with bright blue lakes beneath ice clad mountains. Brought by boatplane and clothed in goretex and fur.  Leatherclad feet warmed by woolen socks and a place to stop and just drink up and in.  A place to watch whilst one paints and another reads and writes.

We visit warm seas whose blue is indistinguishable from the bluest of skies, with white sands and heat that warms us through to our bones as we snooze beside a glorious view before a walk under starlit skies, following the moonpath on the sea to dinner of mussels and Chablis because it’s the law that if they are on the menu we have to order them.

A car, BMW, competent and appropriate and so reliable.  Starts everytime, no question, serviced in a garage on time, everytime.

Our evenings will be spent with music and fires.  There will be visits from family, at ease and happy.  We will provide good food, a comfortable atmosphere, laughter and fun.

There will be hand holding and no knickers. More grinning and hugging.  We will be us, free, just dicking about and being us.

I picture us this way.  I picture us in Paris. 

On truth

I like the me that writes.  She has a clear eye, she can see through the crowded landscape of feelings and thoughts and hurts to the heart of the matter.  Through to what matters. The journey there is easy for her.  She doesn’t get caught up  in what others  think or feel and knows in a place other than her mind what the truth is.  And even if that truth is not the consensus of opinions, she has enough about her not to be concerned about this.  She knows and that is enough for her.

My other part is more conventional.  She can get hung up on what he, she and they said or did.  What was meant on the outside and how it contrasted with the inside and she will search out the gap between them so she can insert a mind like an oyster knife and shuck the white flesh out into the open to squirm and gasp in the light of day, whilst she interrogates it to find out what ACTUALLY happened.

The strange thing about this process is that it is ultimately unsatisfactory.  The truth does not possess the capacity to set us free, because beneath this exposed layer lies another and another and each reveal presents us with less to know and more to ask.  It is not the knowing that has the answer, it is asking the question itself.  Within that question is the seed of true knowledge, that of knowing what is important to us.  And more important still, what is not.

Recently my sons asked me about the extent of my infidelity regarding their father, prompted, I feel, by inappropriate sharing from him, but I would wouldn’t I? I knew that they did not want to know these facts no matter that it seemed so important at the time.  What they wanted to know was, was I still their mother.  Could I have done these things and still be their mother?  I could and was, of course but the fact that their father would have encouraged them to do this in the name of truth remains one of the most difficult aspects of an unpleasant separation for me to come to terms with.  Just who was served by this  ripping away of decency from the position of the moral high-ground?  And what was gained by whom, at what cost?

The desire to know the truth is not one that can be allayed by words no matter how revealing they are.  Truth lies within us, to be found and held close.  Truth is, I don’t care about what someone I love has done in the past, no matter how close.  What I care about is if I can I look in their eyes and see connection.  Can I feel them close when we are separated by miles?  Do my dreams and hopes have them in them?  Do they make my spirit soar and set my mind free?

This is the knowledge I need.



A tale of two courgettes

You asked for  a story didn’t you, and I wondered which one to tell you.  I should warn you this isn’t always a pretty tale. Don’t read this if you are in a long term relationship where you have a tacit agreement not to talk about what you really desire or if you instinctively know that opening that particular Pandora’s Box is not something you will do in this lifetime.  The view from this side of that activity can be a hair-raising read for some, and for others it is merely a record of someone experiencing the consequences of their behaviour. Do read this if your curiosity is awakened however. It’s a tale about curiousity, courage and exploration in an ordinary life.  Enough of these meanderings, pull up a seat, shall we begin?

I was at work, a perfectly ordinary day was happening around me, and yet I had a sense of something bigger than me happening at the same time.  Has that ever happened to you?  You know, simultaneously present in the moment yet at the same time being pulled out and into an expanding place. Somewhere you can feel yourself being pushed against the edges of normality where the status quo, all those unwritten laws about life you perhaps fought against when you were a teenager but accepted as part of the rite of passage into adulthood, is being stretched and pulled around. The close-woven fabric having to pull and expand, and the threads straining and gaping as it does so. A new space appears.  A liminal space.  A gap.

My phone and my attention to my phone was where that gap was happening.  I had begun an online conversation with someone about D/s, and over the weeks as we chatted, he was asking me questions, and paying attention to the answers and in this space, this nowhere space that didn’t exist, because online relationships and interactions are not real relationships and interactions are they? I found I could explore what I actually thought and felt.  Not what I felt was acceptable for me to feel as a wife and mother or even as a woman, but what as I felt as a person, a human being who had found herself in a female body and was sometimes perplexed by what that meant.  I had been married 22 years to a man I thought I adored and who I had met in a flurry of sexual excitement and need – in those heady days we did things that I hadn’t ever considered possible before.  We clicked speedily, completely, inexorably it felt. There was something so familiar and yet exciting about him.  A world of possibilities seemed to be in front of us and  yet over time I had struggled to continue to engage sexually.  I felt … used somehow … I noticed that I couldn’t speak up, that his ideas, wants and needs seemed so much more present and pressing than mine which went deep underground and I realised with a growing sense of emptiness that I was not equipped to mine that treasure.

This happens, I know it does, because what I am writing about here is a literary trope, a recognised relationship cycle; one that the magazines and books created to tell us how to have better and more loving and long-lasting relationships speak about endlessly and the answer to this difficulty is always talk about it.  But what if you can’t? What if at the centre of that relationship that all of your edifice stands upon is a tacit agreement not to speak of the places where you do not fit so easily? What if what you agreed to do when you said “I do” is to cover over and make do and to put up and shut up with it?  What happens when you realise you don’t want to do that anymore?  How does that even happen?

In my case the gap opened up in front of me like a moon path across the sea as I received a text telling me to go to my local supermarket and to buy courgettes and I walked onto it.  A simple enough task,  and relatively easy to complete. Except that it meant I had to have my own agenda for that hour.  Not to be at the service of others but to take that time for me and do with it what I wanted which was, ironically enough, to place it in someone else’s hands.  Some one who hadn’t been vetted and approved of by my husband.  Someone he didn’t know, someone who I was giving direct access to me, someone who I thought of far more than I should be, someone who I bizarrely had to come to trust.

The time I was taking wasn’t for virtuous activities like buying food for me to cook for dinner that evening.  It was selfish time, time for me, not so much forbidden as just plain unexpected. It was excruciatingly disruptive and so desirable.

I loved that gap, that guilty, illegal, stolen, seductive gap. and as it widened between my husband and me, between my persona as a good wife and mother, into it stepped someone I hadn’t seen for a very long time.  Me. Cleareyedgirl as I thought of her, eye as He called her, stepped out with a shocking assurance.  She looked around her with a slightly amused gaze.  She saw the man she was married to with a clarity that astonished me. She recognised his bullying, sulky neediness and called me on what I considered to be love.

I remember driving to Sainsburys with a strange sense of elevation.  Everything seemed brighter, more sharply contrasted.  I noticed cats on walls, people out walking dogs, postmen on rounds,ordinary circumstances given an edge, a shine that the world did not have earlier that morning but in which I was bathing now.  I wondered what would they make of my mission.  Was this something other people did or was it as special as I felt in this moment?

The message asked me to park as far away from the store in the car park as possible and I found a space at the top that had no cars around it.  As I strode into the store I barely noticed the people I passed and yet from this distance in time I have a sense of a man smoking as he leaned against a wall outside the doors that opened automatically to welcome me in.  I had been asked to buy two courgettes and then to take them to the toilets and place one in my pants before I returned to the car.  It seemed a strange thing to do, but as I paid for them I smiled a certain smile, something that has become to me now a kind of tell of  being in a state of submission.  It makes me smile.

The courgette felt strange as I touched it and even more so as I inserted it into my black pants. Shiny, smooth and cool to touch it gave a luxurious layer to my underwear and protuded cheekily behind me pushing out my trousers. I became so aware of my cunt, warm, wet and gliding around the slightly ridged intruder and my gait became extended to accommodate its bulk riding beneath me as I returned to my car.  The next message came as a shock and I gasped out loud as I read it.  “Lie your chair back and close your eyes and masturbate until you cum for me.” it read.  Time stood still as my brain sought to catch up with the implications of this request.  What if I was caught? What if someone saw me and reported me? What had I become? Into the flurry of mental activity stepped eye with her quicksilver responses and sure sense of priority – you want to do this, why not do it – she asked and so I obeyed, I submitted, I wound back the chair pushed my hands into my trousers and began to enjoy the sensations from my already primed clit.

The tap on the window startled me more than I can say. It abruptly called me back to the present and I turned to see a man I didn’t know, wearing a suit and smiling at me.  I immediately locked the doors fearing that I had alerted the local pervert and reached for the car keys. His grin widened, I noticed his eyes seemed to hold a sense of recognition and assurance in them.  He did not look like someone chancing his arm.  He looked very sure of himself and completely delighted. This look intensified as he pulled out from behind his back an A4 brown envelope with eye written upon it. I gasped again and instinctively opened the window as He gestured to me to do so. “Open the door then.” He said, and I did, so disorientated, that as I exited the car I banged my head on the opening . He reached forward and pulled me towards Him, His hand on the back of my neck in way that spoke of ownership and felt remembered rather than new  “Hello.” He said, and kissed me.  I melted into this kiss until the moment I remembered that I was married. Really, I forgot everything for the longest time and then pulled back in horror at the ease with which I had committed this infidelity.  Shocked at its sense of rightness and its inevitability.  I was left dazed as He spun on his heel calling “Bye” as he did, and I watched Him bounce down the hill grinning like a fox.

Its hard now to convey the importance of this moment for me. I sit here nearly 4 years on from it and wonder if I hadn’t gone what would my life be like now?  I learned later that He had made a 4 hour detour to execute this plan.  That His determination to have me made Him plan such an audacious moment, His grinning was confirmation of His instinct that I would be His.

His message as He left the car park read – “Never pull away from a kiss from me again eye please.”

And I never have. 💋❤💋




The Bolters Daughter


“When she pronounced my name however, one of them said,

“Not by any chance the Bolter’s daughter?”  Nancy Mitford – Love in a Cold Climate

I am a Bolter’s daughter – not in the same way as Nancy meant  – my mother has been married to the same man for 60 years this year, however the onset of her Dementia has brought this part of her self to the fore as her impulse control and social filters fade and her true feelings rise to the surface .  She likes to take off, walking quickly and determinedly to somewhere that it seems not even she knows for certain.  Usually though it’s through the tree-lined streets of the estate that they have lived in  since I was seven and out to the main roads, those arteries carrying people purposefully around the city, where she strides along hands in pockets and arm holding the bag slung over her shoulder tight into her side, with whatever treasures she has decided cannot be left for the people in the house who steal them this time.  Sometimes a slipper, the other one hidden carefully behind the sofa, at other times the flowered dressing gown she is so protective of but never wears. Rarely keys or purse or any other form of identification, she does not intend to come back I think.  She makes her getaway when the door is left unlocked, often just as the sun is going down.  The walking calms her she says.

These days she cannot hold in her response to difficult emotions, like a distraught child she repeats “no, no, no, no, no.” when faced with something that seems impossible to accept, like the idea that she might be ill, like the idea that she is home when the house no longer feels safe and secure, like the idea that my dad, is her husband, her real husband.

She is waiting for a version of my dad who is twenty years younger.  Her life was built around his timetable, she waited for him to come home after long days at a physical job with a hot meal and shopping done for his sandwiches the next day.  His agenda was hers, his life surrounded her, she waited, he rewarded the waiting, buying her whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, offering agency, offering autonomy  whenever he felt like it. And she waited for those moments, seized her chances and bolted running free for precious moments until called back to the kitchen, the house, the garden or offered the opportunity to watch the soaps play out in a vacuous play of drama and excitement that never existed for her.

Why is it now that she can say “My life is just work, cooking and cleaning and gardening and I am fed up with it.”

Why only now can she say “I am fed up with men telling me what to do.”

The bolting reminds me of dimly remembered upset and her disappearance, and her being brought back like an escaping pony to a barn.  Sheepish and upset and mutinous.  We children would hide and try to forget it.  Successfully in the main until now.

I have bolted too. Unable to face my emotions, unable to stand up for myself.  The seeds of my relationship with my husband sown in those early years.  I look at my waiting, my building a life around his needs and wants, and him handing moments of autonomy to me like feeding an animal in a cage and I see that there was no changing that. No changing that at all.

I am a Bolters daughter.  My daughters are Bolters too.  Sometime in my family there will be a girl that will not get in that cage regardless of the treasure offered.  She will scream and kick the door down first.  She will not come when the bucket is rattled and no one will rattle a bucket for her.  She will belong to herself first.

#SinfulSunday – me time

It’s Saturday evening and I have spent the day cleaning a new furniture store. Surrounded by beautiful things I can’t afford and envious, so envious of those who could. It would be easy to spiral down into sadness and self recrimination but I have learned what to do in those circumstances now.

What’s the answer to that eye you ask? It’s me time of course. Spinal cord unclenching orgasm put the world to rights. Well they do mine anyway. Learning that pleasure, that what pleases me, is a vital component of a life well lived is my new lesson. One I intend to continue to learn more completely day by day.

It’s the 300th #SinfulSunday, Molly at @Mollysdailykiss deserves all respect and love for this fabulous meme. 

Thanks Molly 💖


#SinfulSunday – compendium 

It’s prompt week for SinfulSunday and this time it’s the turn of the letter C.

I thought you might like to see this year’s posts in one place – so here you are a compendium of eye’s #SinfulSundays 💋 

It only remains for me to say thank you to you all for your kind comments and for being here with me every week. I 💖 you all x

Click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful today 

What will I make of this I wonder?

I wonder what I will make of this time when it is over.  Will it seem like an oasis of calm or a void that I am grateful to be out of?  Or will I be more certain of the importance of this space and time in the future in a way I cannot be now?

This is the first time I have lived alone.  It is a strange existence, there is now no one to DO for except myself and instead of this feeling a liberation it feels more like a casting off.  No one needs me, except myself and I don’t want me, I want someone else.  I am not even sure who, because actually I have become much less patient, much less bovinely compassionate, much more demanding and less resigned, much more easily upset and over excited and much more certain of my own opinions and so possibly more boorish too.

What an attractive package that all makes (insert ironic eyebrow raise here) and yet I challenge that too.  Am I here to be kind, generous, nice or beautiful and who is that for anyway?  I pass a mirror and check, eyes, still blue grey, hair, still silver, body, still slender with the pouch where my babies sat and stretched still visible, legs still good but knees wrinkling.  A momentary thought – should I spend less time with legs crossed – is chased out with derision,.  What?, whaaat???  Do that, change this, for who, for what, to what end? Since we will all come to an end sometime, does any of this matter, make any sense, ADD anything to the world?

I have blogged solidly for a year now, to some welcome interest and kind comments from those whose opinions I respect and yet I come to this point wondering about stopping. Wondering who and what this is for and whether eye, my alter ego, could or would survive if I stopped posting naked and provocative pictures of myself online, and if there were none of those accompanying my writing whether anyone would be interested in it at all.  I am thinking not many but recognise that this could just be a jaundiced view, born out concentrating on lack rather than abundance and I apologise for that.  I do appreciate everyone I have interacted with here but I still feel outside even though this makes me feel very ungrateful for the kind comments I have had.  Others have written about awards and their responses to their inclusion or otherwise. For me they have reflected where I thought I was anyway. Outside.

I have come to the knowledge that this is not a sex blog, I don’t fit in those categories. This is a blog that sometimes includes sex, sexuality, relationships of all kinds in its content. There is erotica here too but not enough to really fulfil that particular niche.  I find fiction hard to write, since it is not an escape but a telling for me, and those opportunities have been rare and few and far between this year.  My blog reflect that as it also includes a kind of journaling, sometimes more a weeping and a railing against life and where I find myself in it and is not attractive, I know this.

So here I am sitting at the end of 2016 and wondering whether to jump into this particular pool again in 2017.  I had hoped that by now I would be swallow diving gracefully into the clear blue of warm water rather than still sitting at the edge wondering which bit to jump into but c’est la vie.  We bring ourselves with us into whatever new year it is, we have no choice about that and I am no exception.

I remain commited to living the best, fullest life I can for the rest of how ever long I have left here.  For that reason alone I think I would struggle not to write.  It provides me with an access to me that I need and want.  Whether or not I need to visit that on anyone else next year remains to be seen.

I wish you and your loved ones the best 2017 that is possible.

With love



#SinfulSunday – tinsel

What could be more kinkily festive than tinsel used as rope to bind my breasts? 

I wish you all the merriest of Christmases and will be raising a glass to you later. Thank you for following this blog and for your comments which I enjoy enormously 💋

Click on the lips below to see who is getting their festive kink on today!

Sinful Sunday

You need a map and a plan

She watched him watching her, his look a calculated one, covering his need for her with a complex mixture of cunning and lust, and a gauging of how just much vulnerability to show; how much to allow through to present the most appealing aspect of him to her that would lead to his ultimate prize, his head between her legs bringing her to the orgasm she was unable to find without him.

It was a game they played often but in this moment she finally knew the extent of his power over her.  She had plunged to its depths and scaled its heights, endured the bleakness of the barren flatlands between them and charted it all in her mind.  The beginnings of a survey begun in the dark of the night and written with her own blood and tears and that ink dried by her lonely sighs had blossomed into a full blown map and because of that knowledge a plan had formed.  A plan he knew nothing of but would soon feel the effects of.  Like the hot breath of an unknown assailant on the back of his neck in the moments before the knife.


He brought her coffee, suggested a retreat to their room to “catch up” and she, remembering his recent sulk, and the moodiness that preceded it, acquiesced with a smile. They had not been intimate for a while now at her behest, she never stopped him from seeking relief via her body but had long since stopped participating herself.  That was why he sought this intimacy, one that would be wrenched from her own need rather than given freely from desire

Once there he took off his socks, a tell of his intent that she felt no corresponding ripple of desire to, and lay down.  He stroked her hair, he knew she liked this, and asked, wouldn’t she feel more comfortable if she took off her top?

She smiled knowing that he wouldn’t expect what came next, and stood up to take off her clothes revealing the beautiful  dark grey lace and washed silk matching lingerie that she had bought herself last week. She knew her beautiful breasts were displayed to their full voluptuous best by the balcony shape and she knew that she spilled, just enough to reveal a hint of the pink nipples that sat just out of reach beneath, in the most delighteful way.

Turning slowly she pulled down her jeans and heard him gasp and unzip himself as her peach of a bum, young beyond her years and toned by squats and lunges in secret visits to the gym, caught his eye and imagination at just the right eye level. She felt a momentary flash of satisfaction at how flushed and undone he looked, legs sprawled and jeans unzipped, hands grasping an angry looking  bulging erection.

She mounted the bed and lay back, and as he scrambled inelegantly out of his clothes stopped him with a shake of her head and the sight of her pursed lips ‘Oh no,’ she said, and watched his eyes widen with sudden surprise ‘this is not for you, not this time.  This time it is for me. I want your face between my legs, your tongue licking and tasting how good I taste and your balls aching with the desire to come.  I however, want something different and I will have it. I want to read and  I want to come, many, many times.  You will be between my legs on my terms for the rest of our lives together and this is your moment of choice.  I come on my terms or not at all with you ever again. Do you accept?’

She knew she had him, he was desperate, primed by her denial and then her acquiescence, led to the moment of slaughter with a calculated hand.  He shook his head, an attempt to clear it of the mist of desire that had him so securely that he couldn’t think straight, it was futile.  He was done for and  he knew it.  The worm had turned.

He handed her the book with the down-turned pages marking where she had read to the night before and stationed himself extending his tongue and flattening it to give her most pleasure, catching sight of her clear gaze in the moments before the book was hiding her face,  his humiliation was complete and he was never so hard before in his life.

This is a Christmas present to those who follow me on twitter and enjoy me being rather more ‘Dominant’ than I might normally be.  They are unfailingly supportive and I appreciate it and them very much – mwah!