Absence makes the night grow longer. The cold tunnel of darkness that recedes until I sleep having slipped exhausted into some sort of state of absence. My mind folds into the  imagined place I crave, where I cherish and cradle your feet as a slave, to soothe your swollen toes and aching arches.

I oil and rub the flesh smooth with a finish to rival a mother-of-pearl inlay in rococo oak, these ten toes, with nails like little red tongues, are just about the most perfect thing I have seen.

Working up past your calves and knees, gripping the flesh with vigour and rolling it round, drawing the blood to the surface, the dermis glowing like gold in sunlight. I kiss blissfully at the pale insides of your thighs as I rise to meet you. Your legs beg to be worshipped and tasted.

Your absentminded hand pulls the strands of my hair into a fist, drawing me into you as an owner who hauls the lead of a wandering beast. The other hand holding a book, your eyes cast just a look to acknowledge my work and then return to the object of your desire.


Sinful Sunday 365: what lies beneath

Recently I stayed up in London to attend a business awards do at a posh west end hotel. Dress code was black tie, but they were very non-specific about the formalities of accompanying undergarments. 

So to Miss’s specification I made sure our Skype later on had an interesting reveal. 

Find out who else is trying to look hot under the collar by clicking on the lips below. 

Sinful Sunday

As I die laying…

I want to be looking down at you, the arcs of your body spread before my fiercely hungry eyes. Me, a grunting mess, thrusting into your weeping cunt.

Gripping the bedstead of iron, wrought like the rigid frame of my body into a dead set shape that will never bend because it aches for you always.

Hoarsely barking my desire into the wall, as I rail against this body I cannot own enough to be truly satisfied.

Scrabbling up with bone-dead legs the escarpment of this desire with footing that falls away as I rise with it.

Each time I feel this shattering need to have you when I can’t feels like I die a little, not the ‘little death’ you let me feel.


The ache in my legs is because I have been here since dawn. Kneeled, naked, collared and cuffed, waiting for when the patch of sun will land on her face and waken her to the day that began for me hours ago. The cold shrinks my muscles and the rugs do little to comfort the blood spots on knees spent too long waiting. But this is a life of privilege that I have fallen into.

In the dustlight of the bright morning her clothes are set out on a trestle table. Pressed smooth and free from flecks of lint and cinders that hang in the air throughout the mansion. Through the quiet I can hear the gathering bustle, hearths being cleared and fires lit. If a house is a machine for living, then this is the sound of its engine turning over.

I’m woken from my reveries by the creak of the door and sudden entrance of Miss, a silk gown loosely clinging to her opalescent flesh. Without looking down she simply stands in the centre of the room and waits for me to address her couture. I stand as quickly and quietly as cramped legs will allow, and wait behind her, head bowed, for the signal. An almost imperceptible nod of the head is my cue to nimbly lift the silken Mantua and drape it across the chaise longue, and my trial begins.

Her brassiere feels fine to the touch as I lift it; my fingers thrilled to stroke its silken cups and capacious crevices; she raises her arms to accommodate the straps I slip gingerly onto her shoulders. The background cleaning seems to retreat as all I can now hear is the hammering of my heartbeat in my ears and the squall of my breathing in this tiny room that she seems to fill with her frame. I drag down the cups and draw them up to capture the full weight of her breasts, their soft milky corpulence frozen in that moment in my mind forever. Lift, cover and pull back on the strap – it takes less than a heartbeat, but in that split second we are the only two alive.

The hook catches its eye, the elastic snap brings me back and I kneel, instinctively. The smell of her sex as I bend to attend her, placing the matching panties on the ground to step into. The pause is short but it is there, that lifted leg to let me draw in the warm draft of her like a tincture. She lets me pull up the garment, feel the drag of her downy skin under my own coarse palms as it stretches, fills and floats like a balloon around her hips and belly, so close to my swollen self standing behind I pray no weeping strands of gossamer goo are left as a trace on her flesh.

Ours is a fleeting Arcadia, an unspoken Eden. She will never say what I know she feels, what I read in the flinching of her shoulders and shortness of breath, as my fingers winch and hold her and I’m shaking, my legs are sand, subsiding under the weight of the room, her body, my desire and the steps in the journey that brought me here to her.


It is like love, she told me. You wait for a while, create the conditions, show patience and desire and it comes literally out of the air. With her sticky fingers she popped the top of the Kilner jar of unpromising white glop that bubbled and burped on the shelf. Feed it, she said, and the air will fill your bread with life and your life with bread, as she chugged another measure of flour into the jar, labelled LOVE, and mixed in an equal amount of water.

By three months she had taught me to learn by watching. Back-breaking mixing and the delicacy of shaping. She showed me how to watch not just her, but the swelling and rising of dough in tubs and proving baskets. Spring tests, window pane tests, float tests will all give you hints, but the only truth is the knowledge you retain inside you. What you gain by watching, waiting and understanding from the touch of your fingers – how to shape a ball by twisting and tucking under. Keeping the tension inside until it is ready to release in the oven.

After two more months I asked her to show me the sourdough, begged her to let me feel its pungent mystery in my hands. To learn the turns and folds and feel its sensual ripples as it sways on the bench. But not until I had watched enough could I start to turn that pot of sticky beginnings into a skein of sour strands, the stretchy gluten that only time can build.

In another month we became lovers and turned our inured fingers on to ourselves. We seized handfuls of each other, squeezing and forcing the spread of our flesh with weathered limbs and splayed fingers, gathering and grappling the tempered skin. Watching and touching, testing for the response with our fingers, swelling with the tension inside and bursting upon release.

With time, the magic comes out of thin air. We prime our starter with practised, patient hands and pull yeasts from the sky that surrounds our little house.

Sinful Sunday 364: prompt week – humour

In many ways the respite of prompt week for Sinful Sunday for this month is a bit of a Busman’s Holiday. The use of humour in my SS photographs is an ironic reflex action for me; strategically positioned items to block full frontal nudity is as much a deep insecurity about my body image as an indulgence in levity.

As a way of swerving my body-image issues, humour is a way of deflecting sexual attention. That may sound bizarre in such an act of exhibitionism, but by using a humorous set-up I can pose naked but with the get-out of saying “oh, I’m not taking myself seriously, you see”. It deflects accusations of pretension – that I might think myself worthy of sexual desire and attention.

I’m aware this is not necessarily a healthy attitude to have but it’s my way of grappling with the issue. It’s also usually a way of working a theme of my week into the photo.

This weekend I’ve been at my parents who’ve had plumbing issues. Meaning I’ve only been able to come up with a dribble in the mornings.

Find out who else has been getting drippy with their pics by clicking on the lips below.

Sinful Sunday

#SOSS – Share-our-shit-Saturday: 31 March 2018

I don’t do this nearly enough, and seeing everyone’s weekly posts sometimes feels like, in light of the very real threat of shadowbanning, I’m smoking a fag on a listing ship while all the other tweeters are below deck bailing out water. Something highlighted by the fact I was uncertain how to punctuate it; ‘Share our shit, Saturday’ sounded like I was using the Imperative Mood; ‘Share our shit Saturday’ seemed to be exhorting others to tell of the terrible start to their weekends. In the end, I opted for the unambiguous hyphen.

So what has forced me off my metaphorical arse this week, and onto the exercise bike of sharing? Lots of good stuff, probably too much to share here, but I always feel there is more to read. Never mind, let’s not let ‘good’ be the enemy of ‘I didn’t read as much as I wanted’…

1) My dearest and bestest on here, @fireandhoney, wrote several pieces this week that ticked my boxes, and it was a genuine struggle to know which to pick. But this moving piece to accompany her stunning #boobday pic today was too good not to share, both in its meaning and the sheer unnff of the pic. I heart this hard:


2) Also the delightfully delightful @_mastersEye has been amusing us with her musings on putting the sex into sexagenerian, and blogged beautifully and honestly about how it felt, in the bustle and emotional challenge of Eroticon:


3) And @HannahLockhardt writes well, thinks hard and shares bravely about a life in smut, submission and super prose. This piece inspired by @coffeeandkink starts with one of the crispest couplets I’ve read so far, and never lets up. Proper skilled, controlled prose that keeps you hooked to the finish:


4) My favourite pick of the pics from Sinful Sunday last week was by @confess_hannah not least in admiration of the logistics of doing this shot by yourself. While I love shots in well-dressed locations or with breathtaking views, I’ll always be drawn to contributors who can conjour a bit of magic from an ordinary setting:


Finally, finally, I wanted to do another shout out for @fireandhoney for her erudite attempts to get us all to write proper and to #WriteBigSexyWords – each week, some new moist choices for when you’re seeking the mot juste.