Spit and Polish

I was always a squeamish girl. Encouraged to separate from my body and view it not as a friend but as a potential enemy.  So just how did I come to find my self lying on freshly laundered Egyptian cotton sheets. My hair fanned on feather pillows around my face, my mouth obediently open and looking up at Him as He fucked me? It had been quite a journey. Many hiccups along the way but those stories are for another day. Back to the hotel room…

I had been trained from our first meeting to keep my mouth open whilst serving Him.  If I forgot He would insert three fingers horizontally and twist them vertically to open my mouth to the required aperture.  Then He would motion me to my knees and insert His erect cock in my eager mouth to remind me of its proper use and I would suck and lick with glee over expertise. But I would focus especially on that place just at the front of His cock where nick of the blade had left a delicately sensitive nub that caused Him to jerk and utter a low noise from the back of His throat when I flicked it with my tongue. I adored that noise. It made me wet.

This day had seem this particular activity happen with my hands tied behind my back but I had been let loose of my bonds once He had thrown me onto the bed.  He liked to do this when I was blindfolded to further confound me.  The sudden push and my fall through the air discomfited me and left me breathless with the realisation of just how much I was in His hands at that moment. We refered to those moments as a ‘clunk’, like an engine engaging a gear and driving forward with renewed power. It signalled the realisation that another barrier has been dissolved and we were in deeper yet.

These ‘clunks’ can happen in many places; in a supermarket as I wander bra-less at His request and the hot combination of embarrassment and pride I feel as I see the eyes mesmerised by my erect nipples evince a ‘clunk’ of such mighty proportions that it generated a flood between my thighs and an itch that cried out to be satisfied as soon as I got home. Filled with thoughts of those I saw having ‘those’ thoughts about me and possibly having to satisfy them in the same way.  And perhaps more recently as I am asked to come for Him and the fantasy that takes me over the edge involves us having the use of another girl,  I watch Him fuck her and am tasked with bringing her to orgasm as He does so.

This is a specific girl and my ‘clunk’ here is an exertion of our ‘us’ in this place, and a exaction of sorts for me – I recognise the power play at hand and I note it and I return you to the hotel room where I lie exposed and ready, open-mouthed and filmy with the lust generated by our interactions thus far.

I raise my eyes to His, I rarely do this when we are having sex, His eyes are compelling and He veils them, controlling my access to their gaze in a deliberate power play.  It creates a desire to see myself reflected in them, and it is usually at the culmination of our time together as His cock pounds in and out of me and I shudder under its compelling rhythm, that I look up and see His desire focused so strongly on me that I am given my wings.  This time I see something I haven’t seen before, a withholding at this point and a challenge. His fingers enter my mouth, horizontally first and I suck at them hungrily, licking and smoothing them as if they were melting ice cream.  He turns them vertically and withdraws them and I gaze at Him wonderingly as He brings a blob of spit to the front of His mouth and launches it into my open maw.  The resulting rush of disgust, indignation and anger is transmuted by the insistent fucking of my cunt and I swallow, all of it, all of the squeamishness and indignation swallowed for Him and replaced by pride at His use.  I grin, and say ‘ You fucking spat in my mouth!’  and am rewarded by His answering grin as He comes and thrusts His cock into my still open mouth to clean Him up.

And I love it.

Another ‘clunk’

Another barrier dissolved by Him.


I climb into bed carefully. Making space for your body even though you are not there. I place my hand, that fits so well, into the dip in your chest and breathe in the smell of you. I salivate. It’s a visceral reaction  to your proximity and I know the wetness has also begun to drip between my legs.

Many have rested here in that same place but no-one else has named it. No one else recognised it; passed as it was from father to son to you to me.  It’s a mutation, a recognition, a home.

Wrap me. Your thumb tracing the marks you have left. Sending them deep into me so I can  present me to the world again. Post flight and damp from the coupling I emerge. More present than was possible before.

This us is a wonder. We do not name it yet but that is not because we do not know it. It is because it is not time.


I have been writing this post in my head for a long time, years in fact.  And yet, when it comes to the point I still can’t quite put my finger on what it is I want to say.  The urge to write it comes upon me when I receive a comment about my kindness, my niceness, my obvious goodness that makes me uncomfortable.  “What if,” the voice in my head says, “what if they knew you were a cheat?” Another part of me will then step forward, protesting a little too loudly, too vociferously for my internal task master, but she says, “No it wasn’t like that, no that isn’t fair.” and I know both parts are right because it’s a black and white world in judgement land but the rest of me lives in the grey part of life.

I have written before about truth. How seeking to uncover a blow by blow account of what happened when can lead us further from the veracity of the situation and not closer.  That the unpeeling of an onion leads to revelations of layers beneath that become bigger not smaller in a kind of internal Tardis.  Knowing what happened can lead us further from what is true than focusing on our feelings about ourselves and others  and asking questions about what we want.

This is not a digression, nor is it an apologia for a cheat but it is a plea for some kind of mental agility and good will on the part of the reader.  I ask you to read this and not judge but to read this and empathise.  That in itself is a difficult ask, I know, since it asks you to embrace the self-seeking survival instinct that lives in us all, at our core, beneath all the civilising influences of our upbringing and our view of our “best” selves that we are meant to bring to every party.  But if you love me at all, please do that.

*Irony Alert*

It started with a Kindle. I didn’t want one.  I loved books.  J  (my husband) gave me one and so reluctant was I to use it I would only read books that were free. But somewhere my mind was working without my conscious awareness of it and I found myself reading Vampire Smut which had a sub theme of a D/s relationship between a pair of Vampire twins and their human love – yes I know, corny, but before that moment I was re-reading beloved books from my childhood as a kind of soothing technique.  I could not read adult literature at all because I could not cope with the themes, I had to cushion myself from the world.  I was faking maturity and that is where it showed..  

In retrospect I know that I had high blood pressure and was very stressed but had no idea about either such was my focus on others.  I was also in the midst of the menopause, regularly engulfed by menopausal rage and battling to retain any interest in sex at all which seemed to just be something J wanted to do to me.  I mourned our casual and immediate desire for each other. I was convinced it had gone for ever.  I was fat, unhappy and frigid.  It seemed an early presage of death.

The stories in the book began to open me up again, I noticed I was responding physically to the descriptions of sex and I was so relieved to discover I was alive. So relieved that I will just write that again for emphasis. I thought I was dead from the waist down and discovered I wasn’t. It was that fucking huge.

J and I spent 22 hours out of 24 together. Working, living, loving, all together – ideal eh?  I thought so.  I really did, and so did he. So I brought this reinvention of my sexual self to him.  I became a beta reader for the author of the Vampire smut books and discovered she was on Fetlife. That was when Pandora’s Box really opened.

We joined. It seemed natural, J was “obviously” a D, he loved to control everything, and that framework seemed to answer a number of difficulties inherent in our relationship  and make everything slot into place.  So did the fact that I was on the s side of the slash. I loved to please.  I fretted if he wasn’t pleased with me or anything else in our world.  His wishes were paramount in our everyday life and I did all I could to make sure that he was happy inspite of his fears, anxieties and constant criticism.

In order to find out more we became part of the Married and Long Term Newbies group. We started chatting to people there I started writing posts on Fetlife that garnered some interest.  I had moved from frigid, menopausal woman to a submissive writer and bloody hell it felt good.  Our sex life ramped up, we returned to the days of fucking wherever, whenever but with that came a strange kind of exclusion. Old friends and family were excluded, new friends were viewed with suspicion.  J only had eyes for me and now he was my D he could enforce it because we took no account of the ideas of consent.  I had given that when I married him, and since I had introduced the idea of D/s I now bore responsibility for my acceptance of his whims. Something felt wrong to me though.  I couldn’t put my finger on it but as part of the Fetlife experience I was now talking to other people including other Doms who asked searching questions about my consent and my sense of autonomy within this relationship.  I began to wonder if my sense of something being not right was justified.   Until that moment I assumed responsibility for that too.  My kindle had given me the privacy to read what I wanted, my Fetlife account gave me privacy to speak to who I wanted and the conversations there gave me the sense of autonomy to question the status quo. One of  the connections I made there saved my life. That sounds hyperbolic but it’s true.

There isn’t a way to sugar coat this but as I read about D/s relationships and talked to others about it I realised that the back drop to the naturalness of the D/s relationship with J was actually abuse. That still seems so hard to say because I know he wouldn’t agree.  I know it was learned on both sides and that is why it seemed natural, inevitable perhaps. But still the concept of ownership had no sense of my owning myself to start with on either side.  A telling place was when we were given a questionnaire to answer regarding limits and I asked J to complete it.  I completed mine first and sent it to him with a romantic note.  I still have it, complete with hand drawn heart that pledged my love forever.

One of the questions was – from a D to an s – would you have sex with other people if I asked you to? Looking back this is the point it all began to unravel. My answer was yes, I thought it best to be honest and we had regularly had sex with him whispering about what the boys in the car park were waiting to do to me with great effect.  I still don’t really believe my answer came as such a surprise but it set off a chain of events that led to me sitting here writing this, that included a domestic violence incident, stalking me and hacking into my emails and then blackmailing me into outing myself to my children so I took responsibility for his behaviour.   His reaction to this question in particular was to shame and blame me.  He erupted into rage about the fact that I could even consider it.  I know it was fear of losing me that triggered this but actually I felt so unseen.  I felt so betrayed.  I felt I had been sold a lie about the truth of our relationship.  I felt used.  I felt cheated.  I never really recovered that trust and as it became apparent that my role in the relationship was to be an emotional sponge and support to J and to swallow any of my own feelings that didn’t fit with his world view I retreated.  But I continued to correspond with one man on Fetlife and I held onto this commonsense, funny and engaging connection with all the desperation of a drowning woman.

So dear reader, here is the crunch point, stop reading now if you want to retain any sense of me being a well-deserving badly treated woman, because this is where my survival instinct kicked in and I didn’t drown it at birth with tears of idiot compassion about how hard this was for J.  This is the point at which I grabbed that lifebelt and fucked the life out of it before I died.  This is the point I cheated.

After 6 months of messaging I met him, I had sex with him, I began a D/s relationship with him and he became my anchor as my marriage floundered.

I was married and I cheated and it saved my life.

I cannot be sorry for it, but I have paid a high price for it since we all love black and white and a long-lived monogamous happy ending but there it is.  I am unrepentant. My marriage at the end of it was absolutely what it was at the beginning apart from the fact that my eyes were opened to the nature of relationship by the knowledge of what a good healthy one felt like.  Even within the limited terms of our engagement I knew it felt good and different and I couldn’t let that go.

So here I am 4 years on.  I will be divorced this year and I know J is still shell-shocked by my desertion and I still face the difficulties brought about by my outing as a fallen and shameful woman to my boys.  The fact is though that my dad called me a hussy at 14 and I have lived with this so long it no longer rankles. Through my new sense of myself I see men afraid of the power of women’s sexuality, and I also see men out there who are not afraid and who love us in all our ferocious glory.

I have no idea if J has searched his soul as I have but that is his journey now.  I know that the nature of the D/s relationship has surprised both myself and the man I began it with but that is the nature of life. You start something thinking it will be one thing and before you know it it has a  beautiful life and soul of its own.  It remains, inspite of challenges of time and distance and a past we both have to come to terms with, a shining light in my life.

As for me, I face the future with hope and anticipation.  I know what a good relationship feels like now and that is what I want.  With open eyes and heart, I bring all of me, every pore,  just that. 

And that’s now what I expect to receive in return. 💋❤💋

#SinfulSunday – Annunciation

‘The word of God (usually symbolised as a beam of light) entered Mary through her ear thus allowing the virgin conception of Jesus’

I lay in the beams of the late afternoon sun. My cunt rosy and warmed by its rays and considered how might our history be changed if the Word of God was thought to first incarnate via our vaginas. 

Blasphemous or not, stories matter. See who else is telling a different story this Sunday by clicking on the lips below 💋


Kink lite, Kink life.

My recent weekend at Eroticon brought up many new ideas and made more neural connections in my mind than I can process quickly.  One of those thought-threads was about Identity since that is the title of the anthology generated by those at the event – buy it here  and from that grew this blog post about the impact of  discovering and then owning being kinky.  I still have an issue with some of the ideas around this particular identity but Eroticon helps me to realise that we are all just people and that it is OK to think about  smut a lot of the time!!


What does it mean to identify as kinky? Even writing those words are difficult for me. From childhood one of the worse things someone could call you was a pervert – a dirty old man or far more horrible, a dirty old woman.

If you have a moment of honesty though I think most of us could admit to finding something arousing or erotic that others find simply odd or even distasteful. At that point, and in that moment we are on the kinky side of the slash and they are on the ‘normal’ or vanilla side. For many of us this is problematic,  I know it was for me, so problematic infact that rather than openly admit to desires or fantasies I buried them first for years and retreated from the idea of myself as a sexual creature. Society also encourages this retreat as we age and move through life events such as family-making,  with its discomfort around women’s sexuality, the Madonna/Whore split, and a general ickiness with regard to the idea of older people, possibly our parents, being sexually active and lustful. It seems right to do this and yet we live with the loss of connection to this important life-giving part of ourselves. Life loses its sparkle and we wonder ‘Is this it?’

Coming out as kinky implies a certain sense of acceptance of our whole selves and of others that we may struggle to match emotionally at times. As we enter this world and discover that there is so much more present here than we ever thought and more shockingly, that in some people’s minds what we find erotic is as shocking to them as we find someone calling a sexual partner Daddy or wanting to be beaten with a cane until the welts has risen red and raw on their backside. It is disorientating and we can struggle to recognise ourselves here.

I remember going on Fetlife for the first time and finding the language, the images, the desires expressed and even celebrated, so shocking. The pictures leapt off the screen, women and men in chains, hobbled, shackled, beaten, hooded, red bottomed and, most strangely, grinning with enjoyment. The comments under the images congratulatory and admiring about bruising and marks, remarking on endurance and creativity and no shame anywhere to be seen or felt as far as I could see. The personal autonomy and sense of ownership of sexuality was a revelation to me. The idea that women might masturbate for their own enjoyment possibly even whilst lying next to their partner with NO REQUIREMENT that they reserve this act for them or for when with them literally ate away at my concept of how relationships should be. The idea that in order to submit you had to have ownership of yourself in the first place rocked my world.

My understanding of people broadened as I embraced the concept of *YKINMKBYKIOK – *your kink is not my kink but your kink is OK. My whole approach to life was transformed by this when conjoined to the concept of Consent- ie the freedom to do what you want with whomever you want as long as permission is sought and given. It was heady stuff and still is. My conventional self will still not feel comfortable in the kink uniform of black and red with tattoos and piercings. It simply is not my style. But I will stand alongside my people and fight the new purity culture that seems to be headed our way because of a moral panic about what adults might do if they could and I guess that is fundamentally what has changed for me. I know which side of that particular argument I am on and why I consider it to be important. It is about liberty, autonomy and the right to be ourselves.

#SinfulSunday – sloth

New sheets of Egyptian cotton have made me fall in love with being in my bed again.  

It’s a place of retreat and the simple pleasure of being awake without having an agenda.  When it’s a shared place there is generally a shared agenda of pleasure and comfort. I can be pretty slothful though, and I dream of a weekend where I only leave it to fetch food and drink. How Sinful is that? 💋
Click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful today 

#SinfulSunday – pensive

#SinfulSunday is all about the image – and I love the opportunity to tease and play with you all. Sometimes though tea in bed with my sinful thoughts is as far as I can get. I would love to hear if you see a sin written on my face though 💋

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

Sinful Sunday

Eroticon 2017 Virtual Meet and Greet

I am just a little bit excited about this year’s Eroticon.  It promises to be a wonderfully valuable experience and a lot of fun!

NAME (and Twitter if you have one)

My twitter is @_Masterseye, you can call me eye, He does.

What are you hoping to get out of Eroticon 2017?

This is my third Eroticon.  At the first one I decided to set my blog up, at the second one I decided to really get on board with writing and posting regularly, at this one I hope to develop the skills to move to self hosting and to have a real vision for what this blog could become.  I also am really looking forward to meeting those I have met on twitter this year and also the lovely people I met properly last year for the first time.

This years schedule at Eroticon is pretty full on but which 4 sessions do you already have marked down as ones you want to attend?

 I will definitely be at the rope session as I am @DJFet74’s rope bunny again – I adore that woman almost as much as I adore rope – which is a lot!!

@Domsigns tech workshop is a must for me as I really want to get to grips with WordPress and self hosting this year without compromising on my privacy.

Meg-John Barker’s session on autothenography will be fascinating and one that I want to participate for input to my MA in Creative Writing as well as this blog

@MalinJames’s writing session is also set in stone on my agenda and I know that I will crawl gratefully to @Kinkcraft’s making session for a mind calming session in their lovely company.

There are tons of others too, I know there won’t be a bad session amongst then so it is all good!

Tell us one thing about yourself that not many people know?

I was in a semi-pro 12 piece soul band in the 80s that supported Doctor Feelgood.

And I can’t add up for toffee, hence five sessions above and two facts here

If you made the papers, what would the headline be?

eye does it again!

If you could have one skill for free (I.e. without practice/time/effort) what would it be?

Deep throating without gagging.  My gag reflex is shocking and I once threw up over His lap – TMI?

Complete the sentence: I love it when…

I am in my flow, regardless of which aspect of my life I am in at the time.

Meet other Eroticon attendees here!

Eroticon 2017