The sting of the wings imprinted on my shoulders by your belt glow with our mutual with-held desire, our long, long wait.  Each stroke creates a sting, creates a gasp, creates an involuntary twist away, followed by a voluntary twist back.

Each stroke is accompanied by a wish that this will be the last stroke, followed swiftly by a desire for it not to be.

Your sulky cock, aroused by our sinuous tango, pushes in and pulls out, each thrust accompanied by sting, gasp, twist, twist. Your hand in my hair arching my back, we ride out and across the sky, sting, gasp, twist, twist

Collared anew, pony hair and suede, I trot and gasp for you, for us. We pull the year across, tracking autumn into winter, winter into spring, sting, gasp, twist, twist, sting, gasp, twist.

With belted sting and you deep in me we are one winged thing.  One charged with remaking the year, remaking time, me deep in you, you deep in me, me flying for us.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

This place

This place is where I am safe.

Sprung fast from a form too scared to hold me, I careen to the rafters, fear billowing behind.


Away from whatever I can’t stand or name. Another pill to swallow, another mirror held, to reflect an image I don’t recognise and can’t quite grasp, and yet holds me in her grip like death.

Because I am lucky he comes to find me. Hand outstretched, palm up, as if to encourage a wild bird to perch.

Fixed as I am, my eye gimleted with nervous strength He softens and soothes.

There, it’s OK.

There, just breathe.

There, you are safe.

And his there, becomes my safe there.

I breathe.

eye posted on Fetlife February 2014

#SinfulSunday – lipstick

The act of putting on lipstick, creating a gash of red or enhancing a pout like a bruised peach, is mesmerising.

I love to watch women applying lipstick in a mirror. The concentration, the slight frown, and the lick of a tongue across teeth before a smile. An assent perhaps, a nod at the woman in the mirror, an ‘I see you’ moment before going out to conquer the world.

Don’t forget to click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful this Sunday 💋

Will you still love me tomorrow?

I had had a lovely weekend. Hanging out with friends in the beautiful English countryside. Eating good food, sharing jokes and wisdom both bad and good. And now the weekend was drawing to a close I had a room in a house I wanted to live in to view on my return to town. Yet I became aware of a sense of disquiet as I pulled into the supermarket car-park to buy food for later that dogged me around the cooked chicken counter and followed me to the basket till and back out to my car again. Settling on my shoulder with a familiar discontented sigh like a dog with one of those lampshade things on that stop it scratching.

It struck me that I might be concerned about moving again, incurring more monthly costs, living at close quarters with people I didn’t know or that it might be just the impact of more change on my already sensitised nervous system.

All of these were possible causes, none of them seemed to hit the spot though and I rooted around in my psyche as I sat in the car, trying to find the source of my discomfort, letting things come to the surface and drift away until I landed upon a twitter exchange which had barely touched my consciousness at the time I saw it but was apparently triggering anxiety way beyond that which the content deserved.

What, I thought, was this about? What had triggered my anxiety in this way, what did I have to consider to sort my head out and let me get on with the day?

The answer surprised me with its simple existential quality. As a woman nearing my 60s I was scared of being replaced by a younger woman. It shocked me mostly because I wasn’t aware of it but that it was activating not only my anxiety but also my responses to other people’s relationship choices which were apparent in the twitter posts and replies. I was shocked by this because I didn’t want this reaction. I didn’t want the fear to start with but I am mature enough to know that being replaced is a possibility in any relationship and one we have to live with in order to trust enough to take the risk of allowing ourselves to love and be loved.

I don’t have an answer to this except to observe it and recognise its presence in my life. Intimate relationships necessarily involve the risk of hurt, let another close at our peril it seems. I know and have experienced being hurt and the author of hurt in another’s life, it has changed me, I am not the same, I guess that’s growth for you.

We risk, we fail, we try again, and perhaps have learned enough at least not to hurt others so much again. I hope so, but we won’t know unless we try will we?

#SinfulSunday – knickers

I came across these in my drawer today due to a laundry crisis.

I had no clean knickers that matched my black bra and one of my rules is that my underwear should always match.

It was a happy accident though as it resulted in this picture which I love, and the chance to wear open crotch knickers under my innocent denim skirt all day.

I felt properly sinful 💋

Don’t forget to click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful this Sunday

#SinfulSunday – stairs

Halfway up the stairs is a stair where I sit

There isn’t any other stair quite like it

It’s not at the bottom

It’s not at the top

But this is the stair where I always…

…. creep downstairs to take #SinfulSunday photos whilst everyone else is in bed 💋

Don’t forget to click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful this Sunday

#SinfulSunday – sinful


What is it that drives me to take these photos? To put my camera on voice command and throw it to the green ground and straddle to take an upskirt picture?

The same impulse that drives me to take time away from friends and music and to find a place where I can hear and see everyone around me indulging in wholesome pursuits.

Am I mad? Or bad? I have been called both. But this impulse also drives me to go knickerless in lacy tights. Wear sequins in the daytime. And to dance, grinning with strangers in the rain at midnight.

This impulse is life.

It is lust

It is creativity

It is love

And I will dance with it at midnight in the rain until I die 💖

Remember to check out who else is being sinful by clicking on the link below

#SinfulSunday – return

There is nothing better than a shower on my return home. The water taking the dust of my travels away as it gushes over my body. 

Returning to my white room with its delicate scent of flowers and comfortable bed.

Returning to my sense of self and enjoying how I feel. 

Remember to click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful this Sunday 💋

#SinfulSunday – dappled

Another shot from last week’s gloriously hot day in the beautiful garden. 

I lay on the bench in the shade of the appletree, enjoying the play of early morning sunlight on my skin. 

I’m hard-pressed to call this sinful actually, but pleasurable it certainly was. 

Don’t forget to click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful this Sunday 💋

A dainty kind of desire

Wistful for you, a dainty kind of desire, an easy to keep in a pocket desire. Lacy, pointy and elegant, associated with sighs and a drooping head, glances up from eyes partly hidden under hair. Discrete comings, stifled yelps quickly turned to a laugh to cover itself.

But what is growing in me now is a need that roars its demands through pounding blood and throbbing tissue A craving girl who will not be denied. Whose mouth is permanently open to receive and from which moans, groans and gutteral grunts emerge as if torn from a mooring deep inside her that no longer serves.

I want you. A tap at the door, instructions to follow. Butterflies in my stomach, my skin tingling with anticipation, stripped, kneeling, striped, crawling for you, your cock in my arse, fingers in my hair pulling back my head so I can view my wanton abandon. Displayed in windows, used and marked. More and more and more.

fist published on Fetlife April 2014