Miss Makeover – Geezer Said He’d Spank Me, Long and Hard, Good and Proper

Geezer Hardnut said he’d spank me if and when I ever sobered up, long and hard, good and proper. I remember him speaking very quietly when he said my bottom would be red raw, I remember getting wet, then frightened because he meant it. He was cold-eyed yet a little sad, as if it really was that old cliche, he didn’t want to do it but I needed to be taught a lesson. He told me it wasn’t going to be sexy, not at all. He didn’t answer me as we waited for a taxi. Then he poured me into the cab and paid the driver.
It started at the wedding when Geezer said, “Arranged marriages?They’re all arranged marriages. Arranged by women.”
He smoothed down his very short hair. Which was already flat. Then he squares his shoulders to adjust the hang of his raw silk jacket, setting his wrist jewelry agleam.  We have been discussing the holy state of matrimony. He’s right, as it happens, but I’m certainly not telling him so. So I’ll just call him a ‘misogynist’, which is now mandatory, whenever any man criticizes any woman, whether justified or not. Now we can ‘move on’, the instant panacea for all known ills.
“Have you ever heard of a man arranging a marriage?” says Geezer,  who will ‘move on’ when he’s good and ready.
We are in a hotel bar awaiting the arrival of two clueless optimists, otherwise known as the bride and groom. They have decided to invest a small fortune on a bogus high society wedding. Mary Kenny, that tireless spokesperson for mediaeval bigotry, recently opined “Every woman should be queen for a day,” Female columnists generally condemn men as childish but it’s apparently all right for women to torch an insane amount of money so they can pretend to be a fairy tale princess for one day.
“Men used to propose,” I reply, remembering men on bended knees. Men in restaurants hiding rings in souffles. It happens in the movies. Some men must have proposed once upon a time, surely? In my childhood. In a fairy story perhaps. I had to ask my ex to marry me.
He said yes straight away but it’s not the same, is it? Some handsome prince he was.
“I don’t know anyone who has proposed,” says Geezer. “Anyone except women, of course.”
“Why did you keep getting married?” I ask. He’s done two stretches already. And the way he’s going he’s going to be an old lag. Stir crazy. Institutionalised.
“Love. What else is there to live for? You have to be in love,” he says.
Christ, he’s going to burst into song in a minute. Just as long as he doesn’t tap dance on the tables.
“How can you live without love?” he says, spreading his arms. “Love is the answer.  And we have to bring up children. Somehow.”
H’mm. Who is this ‘we’? If we are talking about child care it usually isn’t Geezer. Well, I’m familiar with the problem. You can’t do much parenting when you don’t actually live there any more. And then the twit who caused this situation says, “You don’t care about the children.”
More grinning and actual, genuine happiness from the wedded ones and I switch to vodka. It doesn’t help. I just get more sentimental about the happy couple. And all the other people who were still in couples. The drinks come round again and again. We dance. We laugh. Then I had a few lines with Geezer. And some more with someone else. The champagne started to flow. Then some bad things happened. I don’t process cocaine well. I don’t like my behaviour on it. That’s why I never buy it.
GAY MARRIAGE. DO ME A FAVOUR.
I’m alone, sniffly from drug withdrawal and self-pity and have no recall how the flat got this foul. After cleaning up blood and various other bodily fluids from all over my flat I hate myself for a while. Then I hate some other people. I throw up yet again then pour my last bottle of champagne down the sink. I take to my bed to drug myself with television, the only thing my bruised battered body can take.
My brain can’t quite take this though: the Gays are still clamouring for marriage. Civil Partnership isn’t enough. This from the one sector of society who can do whatever the fuck they want, whenever they want. Are you quite sure, guys?  Oh well, more lambs to the slaughter. And more money for the sex workers who will be required to keep the show on the road. When monogamy palls. Which it will.
Just had to take a break to have a little weep. I miss My Man Max. Postcards aren’t enough. I want all of him. Next to me. Inside me. Not just the occasional e-mail.
Here’s his latest postcard. Milan. “Wish you were here. You’d look so good in this season’s clothes. It’s all Gypsy chic.” I thought that was last year but maybe the Italians are doing it again. Who cares? A heterosexual man who is interested in what his lover wears? And not just in the sense of ‘shining up the trophy wife’.  What fresh heaven is this?
“I yearn to be with you. Not long now, my darling.”
Bring it on, buster. The sooner, the better. I’m happy for at least…two minutes. Is that as good as it gets? Fleeting happiness about something that hasn’t actually happened.
It really is better to travel hopefully. Arrival is for suckers.

PHILIP LARKIN: BALD GIT SURROUNDED BY WEDLOCK JUNKIES
Time they made heterosexuality legal, grumbled Philip Larkin, complaining about some namby-pamby liberal outrage, probably the abolition of the death penalty for sodomy. “But they have made it legal,” said one of the wedlock junkies he was embroiled with. “It’s called marriage.” A bit too legal, he grumbled.
He was afraid to die so spent about fifty years avoiding life. He was afraid of marriage so got trapped in several love affairs simultaneously, all of them stickier than marriages, where at least the boredom factor is such that you can get your head down for a good snooze. Marriage used to mean thirty years kip where you didn’t have to worry about courtship or looking good. You had to remember anniversaries and endure family visits and you could be somewhere else most of the time anyway. Listen to me. Rewriting history so that marriage, which drove me mad, or madder, seems like a workable solution.
I would marry My Man Max of course. But he won’t do it till I clean up. Even then he might baulk at the responsibility of having children. Which he might in any case want to have with someone else. Someone who isn’t a drug addict. Or a sex worker.
Which is why I find myself, after a very shaky, weepy day in bed, entering one of the city branches of Narcotics Anonymous. It’s a room at the back of a church. The ceiling does not cave in as I walk in. The Great Whore of Babylon has been welcomed back into the fold – if I want it, which I’m not quite sure just yet. This time might be different though. I’m going to get a sponsor, do it properly. I’m not supposed to tell you what happens in here but I don’t see why I shouldn’t. I’m still serious about cleaning up. Which is going to get me my son back. And My Man Max. We’ll get married. Which will certainly teach him a lesson.
Any day now.

Miss Makeover – The Other woman is A Ferrari…

YES. BUT YOU’RE NOT HAPPY, ARE YOU?
Happy? Are you? Well then. Doing transformational sex therapy pays the rent and Ecstasy makes me genuinely happy, for a while, while doing me very little harm. Or at least nothing that can’t be fixed by Clomipramine – a kinder, gentler old school Prozac. Check it out! My son is at a good school. I see him in the holidays and at visiting hours. My ex is getting on just fine without me. Never had a moment’s regret. Probably because the house is tidier. And, joy of joys!, my son will not grow up like his mother because…er, depression and addiction genes will magically disappear without my physical presence. That’s sorted then. And my ex moved in his grey-haired crone for mutual massage with whale song on the stereo. Fade up veggie wimp band like Coldplay on the soundtrack for Happy Ending. Read more

Miss Makeover : Jeremy Clarkson Written In Come

BELLE DU JOUR

‘”I want to write my name in come all over you,” he said. I smirked. “You can’t fool me, you nicked that line from London Fields.”‘ Impressed by the real Belle Du Jour on a chat show, a smart, strong woman now revealed as a scientist who once worked as an escort, I read her book and found a client quoting from Martin Amis. Our narrator  recognises the quote instantly. While pigs fly across the sky behind them. No, of course I’m not jealous of her success, her telly series or her film deal.  How dare you?!  Well, I wish my clients quoted sharp, witty writers but they generally prefer to recycle Jeremy Clarkson, if  by some miracle they’re not talking at great length about themselves. Cue Belle Du Jour.  ’He looked at me strangely. “Amis fan?” he said idly, pulling himself with one hand.”‘
This putative punter may be pulling himself with one hand in more than one sense but he’s still preferable to the hounds I deal with. Read more

Girls on Top: Explicit Erotica for Women edited by Violet Blue

You know it’s going to be an exemplary collection of erotic fiction for women when Violet Blue is involved. Read more

Bitch Magnet by David Aaron Clark

“MY PHILOSOPHY?” says the trim black man in the white shirt with bemused wonderment.
“I have no philosophy. I live, I act, I react. Life is short, there’s no time for philosophy. What’s your philosophy?”
I allow as that I have yet to settle on one. I explain that I am, in fact, here at this disreputable West Side club because I’m still busy exploring the ramifications of several conflicting trajectories of rationalisation.
He smiles, teeth startlingly white against the deep brown skin of his face.
“Okay, I’ll accept that. A seeker. Which way do you find yourself going?”
“Dominant at the moment, I think,” I answer, glancing as casually as possible down at the elegant furrow bisecting the set of perfect globes jutting upwards next to me. A semi-anonymous pussy, sitting at waist-height and jutting open for my inspection. It occurs to me that it might as well have been the discarded bottom of some outdated department store mannequin.
But these disembodied-seeming haunches instead belong to one of three female slaves that the man I speak with has led into the club on a single leash, earlier in the evening.
A train of barefooted slavegirls dressed in cheap shifts with their eyes cast downward, they’d seemed on their way to an authentic auction block – not a faux comedy played out by leather and studded weekend masters with play dollars, but a true auction block of the soul, beaten down smooth by years of abuse and directionless yearning thwarted by either personal defect or the uncaring machinations of the world.
One was an attractive young black woman, with her hair curled and allowed both makeup and the most frilly, most vain of the unappetizing shifts. Another of the unfortunates wore huge, out-of-date brown-framed glasses with thick lenses, and beneath her pale blue shift her ample breasts pointed unappetisingly downward, her belly a round shadow against the material. She looked like a grammar-school teacher. The last of them was the prize. The possessor of handsome if bland features, she wore a torn brown shift that exposed a beautiful strong back, shoulderblades brushed against by bluntly-cut fine brown hair. Even in bare feet, her calves were perfect and her ass high. Her small breasts sat proudly with no need of support, jutting hard nipples through the thin material that covered them.
This sorry trio had been directed to kneel in a broken line across the club’s empty stage, from where each of them took a turn bending over a leather-padded horse so that their master might idly spank them, bending down to whisper in their ear after each blow. The cumulative effect of their waiting, fecund asses in a row reminded me of a musty grove of mushrooms straining from the forest loam after some long, polluted rainstorm.
I suppose their master was frightening in a way, though I felt no threat toward myself emanating from him; just the subtle push of highly honed and directed madness.
His self-assurance was preternatural. He didn’t look like most masters. The only leather he wore was his shoes; no jacket or vest, no wrist bands, no gaudy display of straps and whips hanging from an oversized belt.
He knew that with his enviable build and rich brown complexion that the simple open-collared white shirt that billowed at the waist and pulled at the broad shoulders, the tawny, small-waisted slacks were impressive enough. Any more would have been gross overstatement, a cheap parody. His power didn’t need the support of an agreed-upon structure of signifying clothing. A small black pager hung clipped to his belt.
He told me he had surveyed the scene at the club and been disappointed to see there were no other “men,” only what he regarded as aimlessly wandering cattle, cursed with slack faces, drooping bellies and badly-fit clothing. All on some kind of desperate automatic pilot that sought out any hint of a “scene,” of a sexual power play they could feed off, living vicariously through for a few more moments, imagining in their minds they might just be invited to join in.
Still, this master was generous enough with his three slaves that hunched there on the stage before him with their asses in the air. If any of the cattle just found enough sinew in his heart to merely ask, to pay the man the respect he was ultimately so hungry for, the slaves asses were theirs’ to play with, under the master’s watchful eye. But of course these hungry seekers were mere props in some exchange between master and servant, an instrument to instill discipline, to engender trust, to punish and reward. He’d stand back smirking as the horny men poked and prodded at the women’s genitalia, his sadistic glee ignited not by the women’s position but by the men’s, by their basely obvious, unconcealable desire to touch this anonymous feminine flesh.
“Go ahead, if you’d like,” he told me, seeing my own appreciative glances at the nearest slave’s rich ass – the one with the broad, proud back. I weighed my dignity against the cheap pleasure of the moment. The moment won.
I ran my hands over the girl’s tautly flexed cheeks, running a tentative finger across the indentation of the anus, the bold bulge of perineum, then dipping down into the lightly furred cleft between her labia, which were conveniently bulged out, forced open by her kneeling position.
I plucked an ice cube from my plastic cup, held it in the air for him to inspect. He nodded his approval, offering the slightest grin of condescension and amused appreciation; I was civilised enough to seek his permission, but not man enough to simply take what I wanted. Score one for me and one against me. I felt a tug within me, as I wondered if there was a part of me that, given the wrong circumstances, that could seek this haughty stranger’s approval just as desperately as these women hunched before us.
I found the ring of her sphincter with the more beveled edge of the cube. A shiver ran the length of her body and it seemed for an instant as if she might pull away. But she was better trained than that; though mine was an unknown hand, one that could belong to anyone from a cop or a nun or a diseased drooling drunkard wandered into the club from the bleak warehouse district outside, she stood firm as I forced the ice up into her lower colon.
I hold my hand under her asshole, and when it begins to force the ice back out, I push the cold package back into place, ignoring her small squirms of discomfort and repeating the process until the cube had melted to a small enough dimension so that she can retain it while it melts away into nothingness.
Putting down my cup on the ledge of the stage, I run my other hand further up between her thighs, pushing past their compressed fat until my index feature reached the sloping nether surface of her clitoral hood. Her ass flexes with pleasure, and as I push the hood open and seek the nubbin within, she aids me with a discreet raising of her ass she probably hopes is imperceptible to her master.
He sees anyway, and smiles, his strong perfect teeth nearly fluorescent against his shadowy features. I look at him once more.
“She’s well-trained,” he says, smiling.
A few strokes and a thicker moisture than that of the water began to flow over the pad of my thumb. I continue to rub her clit until she begins to visibly buck, the static electricity crackling through both our bloodstreams, building her pleasure further and further until I abruptly strike her right cheek with the open palm of my other hand.
She gasps and rises slightly up off her heels to either avoid or meet the next blow, which I delay until my thumb can plumb the depths of her wet pussy all the way up to the web between it and its attendant forefinger.
I feel the muscles in my arm jump as I lift her ass higher, the weight of her hindquarters balanced on my thumb stuck inside her cunt. She scrabbles her dirty heels against the stage, seeking purchase against my thrusts. I frig her for a few strokes, feeling the edge of my nail scrape slightly against the walls of her vagina.
With my free hand I slap her right cheek twice, savagely.
She grunts her distress. I procure another ice cube from the cup and run it over the corrugated flesh of her abused ass, the terrain now so similar to the ruffled terrain inside her cunt.
She sighs and pushes back toward me again, soothed and relieved until I lift the hem of her pushed-back shift further and run the ice up and down the column of her lower spine, eliciting a gasp. Then I jam a thumb up her ass with no warning, the only lubrication the thin layer of shit covering her interior walls.
I pump my stiffened digit back and forth in her ass, and begin to slap her haunches with my other hand, setting up a rhythm whereby as soon as she feels the relief of one insult withdrawing the other takes up the slack.
When she can take it no more, she falls sideways. Her face is still hidden, but I can tell by the shaking of her broad, handsome shoulders and the muffled sobs seeping out from within the arms thrown across her eyes that she has been reduced to terror and misery. I turn to her master.
He comes forward and sets her back up on her knees again, and gestures for me to continue if I so wish.
“She’s a good slave, but she’s still learning. She has to find her way past the fear of pain, of what might happen, and then she’ll be all right.”
“Is there a safe word?”
He looks at me as if he hasn’t heard me right.
“A safe word or a gesture she can make to say that she’s had enough?”
He shakes his head, offering me the same smile he might bestow with utter magnimity upon the village idiot as he inquired over the existence of Santa Claus, The Bogeyman or a final redemption.
“There is no safe word.”
When I’m through with her I dash what’s left in my cup across her now horribly bumpy red ass, watching her flinch in fear. The ice cubes clatter off the low edge of the stage and to the floor; the bourbon-spiked water leaks down past the depression where her ass cheeks split into hypnotic abstraction and drips between her legs into a radiant pool. The thin trails across her abused crimson flesh look like tears.
David Aaron Clark

An Inverted Heart. Glowing Ruby Red by Marissa Moon

I’m staring at an inverted heart. A perfect peach. Ripe for the plucking. My husband’s bottom is small, firm, and round. His legs would make many a woman jealous and I wonder if any of his squash partners have ever commented on his smooth hairless limbs or the lack of pubic hair. Despite a taste for slinky lingerie he’s still a fit sexually active red-blooded male, not one of those prancing ninnies who desire nothing but cross-dressed humiliation and the chance to kiss Madame’s feet. Not that there’s anything wrong with that…. (Sissies!) Read more

Best Women’s Erotica ‘09 Edited by Violet Blue

They’ve really got you on the edge of climax with last year’s copy. Best Women’s Erotica ’09 encompasses sizzling explicit content from a myriad of talented sex writers. Read more

Best Fetish Erotica

Yet another steamy compilation from Cleis Press, this edition of Best Fetish Erotica takes it up a notch and puts more focus on the darker side of kink, with edgily sexy stories of knife play, cross-dressing, spanking, rubber, doll and food fetishes and the odd costumed animal perv at Disneyland. Read more

The Not So Invisible Woman

Entertainment publicist Suzanna Portnoy is sexy, single and searching in the city. But don’t think that this is some London spin-off of Sex and the City. No one’s looking for Mr. Big, and not even for Mr. Right. There’s only one man on the menu: Mr. Right Now.

This may only be her second erotic memoir (a continuation of her sizzling sexual trysts in The Butcher, The Baker, The Candlestick Maker), but Suzanne is doing it again, and again…and again; strutting her stuff all over the internet’s underbelly for her next eager sex victim.

She somehow successfully manages to juggle a full-time job and single parenthood to two teenage sons, with a more than raging sexual appetite, that involves chat rooms, swingers’ clubs, naturist spas, doctor/patient role play, nipple play, kinky shopping sprees and all manner of boys and toys. It’s hard work being a part-time slut, but Portnoy is one of those few unabashedly cool and confident gals who manages to make it look quite glamorous. This is a light kinky read for those ladies out there looking for more from your average Chick Lit horde. Buy The Not So Invisible Woman online now.

Review by Kara Martin

Suzanne Portnoy: www.suzanneportnoy.com

Secret Magazine 33 and Fetish Photo Anthology 5

The latest issue of Secret magazine, number 33, has just arrived and I recommend it to you. For those who don’t know, Secret is produced in Brussels by Jürgen Boedt and it’s dedicated to the European fetish scene. Secret is in the English language and it’s entirely in black-and-white. So, for those who love monochrome fetish photography, this is what you need.

Issue 33 has stories, photography, informative features, features on fetish fashion, book reviews and an interesting feature on women turned into furniture by Jeff at HouseofGord.com. I loved this! There’s also rope bondage, cartoons and some lovely retro illustration by Bernard Montorgueil. If you have not seen Secret magazine, give it a try.

As well as Secret, Jürgen also publishes large hardcover fetish photography albums called Fetish Photo Anthology and issue 5 is out now. There are various offers on the website, allowing you to order a book and a magazine at an all-in price.

View and buy from Secret at www.SecretMag.com

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