you should know

Temporarily exhausted we stretch out together on the cleared arena of our bed, just the rumbled sheet and spent bodies entwined. The pillows are strung across the floor, along with discarded silent toys and the occasional bottle of lube, swept away in the final throes. The duvet has long been shed, the radiating heat from our bodies enough to keep us warm in the bright but ineffectual sunlight.

Lazily i suckle on his collapsing cock, collecting the residue of his flavour, my face resting in his lap that smells sweetly of clean skin overlaid with my musk and fresh sweat; the familiar aroma of our exertions that saturates the bed linen and my senses equally.

Behind me his hand drifts over my naked, cooling skin, a whisper of touch that warms me and calms my thumping heart.

He strokes down to my waist, feathering fingertips on the dip of my hip, a sweep across my buttock, then long arcs of caresses across my bent back as his hand returns to the broader plain of my shoulders, the cycle repeated in an idle yet unceasing rhythm. He doesn't speak; the only sound that i am aware of is that of my lips on his flesh.

My tongue continues to move in longer, lighter touches over the semi-erect plumpness in my mouth. His hand settles at the nap of my neck, tugging at short, soft curls with his thumb and finger while i sigh from deep within. Then his palm opens to grip wider, the weight of his arm pressing my face closer with the thrilling edge of pressure in the soft hollows on either side of my throat.

when the river is frozen

Heat a shot glass of milk in a small, thick-bottomed pan. Remove from flame, add 25g of chocolate with chilli. Stir until chocolate has melted, then add one fresh expresso shot. You might need a little sugar.

My Hugmug was a gift from a friend.

I am a little anxious about the next couple of days; I am not used to sharing space with someone else. I'll let you know how i get on, when i get back. Maybe.

fenced in

My husband still makes me cups of tea.

He has a key to the front door and lets himself in when he is joining us for supper, or at the weekend for lunch, as he did today. He will usually put the kettle on straight away and make me a glass of herb tea.

"There was a special offer on tea bags" i said, "if you want to take some with you."

"I wondered why you had bought such a large box," he said.

"By the way" he said, "the freezer looks like it needs defrosting."

At which point the temperature in the kitchen plummets, despite the temptation to throw the hot pan i am manoeuvring.

"Why are you cross at Daddy?' asks my son.



How do they know?

traveller's tale

On the train i have a few minutes to rummage in my bags, checking for forgotten items. There is often something left behind in the crush of time at the beginning of such a day; it is never anything particularly essential, or at least nothing that is non-purchasable on arrival.

I enjoy this journey from one contrast to another; from the blank fields stitched together with hazy trees at the beginning, through the ranks of narrow, busy gardens that fringe my view, then the cliffs of red-bricked buildings steadily encroaching on the window. The landscape slows as we travel through the tunnel of burgeoning wires and bridges, of walkways and flyovers and the impression is that the train needs to shoulder its way past the sleeping back this city, creeping past faceless walls and dingy corners to the shiny, beating heart.

From the dark tide of suited shoulders and hurried footsteps i veer off into the station pharmacy, with the short aisles of commuter essentials and city luxuries. I am on time, but i don't wish to delay, and the choice is limited and quickly made.

At the checkout i present the blue bottle of play lubricant and a stubby gold tube.

"Have a good day" says the cheerful checkout attendant.

"I will" i say, and walk back to the cosmetic display and the convenient mirror to apply thick plum colour to my smile.

no more

When i get tired and distressed, i shut down. All i can think of is sleep, and the numbing release of random dreams.

He is asking me to let go, just a little, of my children. I can't bear, can't comprehend, can't believe that we are at this point.

Tonight my son and i had a conversation. He wanted to work out all the ages of his, and his brother's, comfort toys - where i had bought them, and when. Together we pieced together all the significant dates, and the order of seniority. It is a past that is suddenly muffled to me. Places and situations that seem eerily unreal. Another woman, another life, when births, birthdays, holidays and foreign living were celebrated with the arrival of soft creatures to be cuddled and loved. To my child it is his immediate past, a catalogue of his security, yet for me it has become a broken path.

All the while, he held tightly the ancient bundle of wool and fluff that i keep under my pillow.

Both the children are fascinated that i have a teddy that is as old as i am, and they hold it reverently, kiss it good night with affection. It is new to them as it was packed away in various drawers and cupboards during my marriage to their father - hidden away ever since my first pregnancy - yet suddenly, thankfully, near at hand, for times like these.

There is little point in me being awake any longer this evening. Sleep is where i should be, right now.

life is never too busy for

a gratuitous photo of lemon drizzle cake.




Smut abounds, but just not in the written form. If only you could see what i was thinking right now ...

cream cake

I have been wittering (twittering) about scones and the regional (south west England) cream teas this week, so, for Mothering Sunday, i see a perfect excuse for posting gratuitous bake and cream photos.

I don't often make scones. Although they are delicious, in a soft, well-padded and comfortable way, they don't keep well, and are best eaten within hours of baking, preferably while still with a breath of oven heat. A warm scone is hard to resist, even when i know the consequences of succumbing to a bite of wheat product, and my children can not eat a whole batch like they could these, so i prefer to keep temptations out of my olfactory range. However, i had a big project this week which involved making several batches, and my scone-making pleasures have been thoroughly indulged.

They can be made from scratch within 20 minutes and eaten with either butter and jam, or the stupendous traditional baked cornish cream, they make a fabulous treat. I found a slight variation on the basic recipe of flour, fat, a little sugar, egg and milk which worked extremely well. Adding dried fruit is also an option.

I was taught that the secret to making light scones is a light hand .. and to be distracted. As i am busy planning my next hedonic moment it was not difficult to let my thoughts wander to a hotel room, and a naked picnic, perhaps a length of knotted rope, while all the time my fingers brushed lightly through the flour, pinching at the flakes of butter.

Golden Scones (from Mary Berry's Fast Cakes)



Using fingertips (and a dirty mind) rub small pieces of soft butter (50g) into 225g self raising flour and 1 tablespoon of baking powder, then add 25g of soft brown sugar.

Crack an egg into a measuring jug, add a tablespoon of golden syrup and beat with a fork to amalgamate. Top to the 150ml measure with milk, and beat once more. Add liquid to flour and mix to a soft dough. Knead briefly on a floured surface, roll out to half an inch thickness.

Using a fluted shape cutter (i like my square cutter in particular) cut 10 - 12 scones, place on a large baking sheet and brush with a little milk. Bake for barely 8 minutes @ 220° until golden brown.









Eat within 24 hours, or freeze straight away and refresh in a warm oven. A perfectly risen scone will have a natural fissure across the width; split, add a dollop of thick, crusted cream and a spoonful of a friend's home grown raspberry jam.

moving shadows

It has been a week of promise; of summer, despite the frosts; wellness, despite the spring colds; friendship, despite misunderstandings. My husband asked me for a divorce, and the sky did not crumble.

I fell asleep with gigi in my hand, unused. I am too unfocused to bring to mind a vision that inspires me although i dreamt, yearningly, of pinching pain.

tones

"I want to watch you squirm" he says, and pushes my left knee towards my chest. My right leg is trapped under his slanted body. There is a lit lamp behind my head; in the cool tone my body glows white in broad stripes across the soft vanilla of the sofa, intersected by the warmth of his face and chest, his fingers darker still on the sweep of my inner thigh as he presses down and wide.

His eyes hold mine as his face dips into the light.

together

My children seek me out for extra cuddles the morning after the night before, whenever their father has put them to bed, instead of me.

I can hear them murmuring together from their beds, in the ridiculously early dawn, and as soon as my alarm sounds there is a patter of feet. The little one wails as soon as he realises he won't win the race, even though he has the advantage of the bottom bunk.

Fortunately mummy has a front and a back, or a left and a right, so, with a child on either side of me, skinny pyjamad legs wrapped around me and sweet scented heads tucked in at chin height, we await the beginning of the day from under the comfort of my duvet.

Nigella Lawson's Chocolate Macaroons: cocoa, icing sugar and almonds bound together with egg whites, and baked to a dense and chewy nugget of sweetness. Very quick and simple - rely on timing rather than sight to determine whether they are ready so as to not overcook and ruin their moist texture. Perhaps not as luxuriously damp as the spanish macaroons which i adore, but they make a fine pairing.

my mirror

He has a grip of my hair that stretches to the point of burn, my upper body elongating below as if suspended. My spine lengthens, hips lifting from my crouching fold on the floor by his feet. I sway slightly on the fistful of blonde hawsers, adrift on the halo of tautness.

There is still enough resistance in my neck to tilt my chin towards his face, so i can watch his face. He taps me gently on my cheek, with his fingertips. It is as a caress.

He hits me harder, with the width of his pressed together fingers, wide and flat. My vision blooms, softening focus, the flush from my cheek rushing to collide with the tingle of my scalp. All i see are his lips moving, asking the question. It is rhetorical, but he still expects a response. I wait until he asks again, with the accompanying heat and pleasing sting.

"Yes", i answer.

a loo with a view

Oxford spires.

My camera makes a little click noise when i press the shutter - i did wonder whether my fellow bathroom occupies might think i was taking a picture of my gusset when actually i was just admiring the outside view.

The date that wasn't (F)

I took a brief break from my Lent abstinence, and met him for coffee. He is a single father (and the third trombonist i had met this year), and the conversation between us has always flowed easily, perhaps too easily, for i had missed some vital pointers. He really, really doesn't like food so there seemed little benefit in discussing domination and submission.

*

Banana bread, ready for the oven.

HNT/Stones

"I am puzzled" he said, folding long, 8 year old legs into my lap, his head, damp hair from the bath, tucked under my chin.

"Puzzled about what?" i asked, wrapping him in towel and arms.

His breathing deepens as he settles against my chest.

"When you are angry" he says, "you still cuddle me".

*

Another local walk, another shadow picture. Happy HNT x

silent seas

I am considering changing the name of this blog to Roast Chicken and Smutty Stories.

That is all i have for you at the moment; the same crisp skinned chicken and a little of the same smut. No dates, no angst, no blues. I feel .. normal. It won't last.

I almost made plain, boiled potatoes last night, but i had some parsnip in the box and could not resist sweet roast vegetables one more time. Soon the good salad potatoes will be in the shops, and mint will be florishing in the garden. I made a coat from a couple of rashers to keep the breast meat moist. The children squabbled over the last piece of salty dessicated bacon.



If you are a tweeter, do come and wave at me here.

I tried last week's muffins again, with Lemon Curd, Nutella and Caramel (dulce de leche). The boys voted Caramel doughnut muffins as the winners, although, if i could have eaten them, i think i would have gorged on the sticky, aromatic lemony ones.

catch me

He answers his phone.

It is expected; a prearranged conference call which we knew would interrupt play. He is dressed, ready. I watch him standing at the window, naked except for thick leather cuffs around his wrist and ankles. I have fixed them in place with heavy duty cable ties and will need a sturdy pair of scissors to release him. Around his neck is the broad leather collar, tighter on him than it is on me. He looks beautiful in the sunlight, burnished and shadowed, the shackles only emphasising his height and the strength in his legs. His cock bounces slightly as he moves, semi-hard, mocking the seriousness of the conversation.

I watch for awhile, then crouch on the floor beside the bed to check lube supplies. When i lift my head he is standing about me, one hand to his ear, the other making a slow pass along the length of his cock.

I approach his single open eye with my tongue, tracing lines of wet over smooth, tight skin. Circles of sensation on the broad sweep of my palate, liquid heat across his exposed head. I watch his face high above me at the same time, as my mouth opens wider. He closes his eyes. Occasionally he moves the phone from his cheek and groans quietly.

He cups his balls with his free hand; i take him deeper. His fingers move to the back of my head and i begin a slow rhythm, my hand replacing his at the base of his cock. My saliva flows across my fingers, my thumb pressed along the underside of his shaft; i can feel the slide of thumbnail into my mouth at every sweep of my lips.

I draw my face back to enclose only his bulbous end and to view him once more, see him take the phone from his ear. His other hand moves quickly into the periphery; i am pacified by a full mouth and i don't flinch. The slap is huge and shakes my skull, a momentary star. I am stunned, withdraw my mouth sharply, but the lingering sting revives me and i grip his flesh tighter in my slippery fist.

"I''ll pay for that" he laughs, as i reach for his wrist, matching his grin with mine as the phone hits the floor.

prism

Half a lamb shoulder for sunday lunch. I felt that the flavour might need punching up (not sure how long it had been in my freezer) so i studded it all over with cloves of garlic and anchovies, held in place with a peg of rosemary. It did not take long in a furiously hot oven, then left to rest for 20 minutes. Perfect rosy pink, and sweetly delicious. The anchovy is barely noticeable, but deepens the savoury note, and adds an essential intrigue to the sparse gravy.

I was chatting to a man last night - he was introduced to me by a fellow kinkster to talk about D/s dynamics, which i am always happy to do. Maybe i was feeling too chatty, but i realised that i was coming across as opinionated and he commented that i appeared to be more dominant that submissive.

It is ludicrous .. why can't a confident and assertive woman be sexually submissive? I might like to be physically used, but i am no doormat, and i won't pretend to be a pushover just for a legover.

ever welcome

He has a firm grip of my head, spread fingers obscuring my sight and muffling my hearing. He sets the pace and i follow, the whole of my upper body swaying to the pitch of his hips and the rocking of his arms. It is not just my face that he fucks, but the cavity beyond; my neck braced to absorb his thrust, my throat extending into my chest, lungs sucking inwards to hollow my checks around his bulk. My lips are fixed and wide, my tongue flattened but still free to move. I use it as an expression of my hands, my fingers and the muscular cramping i feel from between my clamped thighs.

There is no sense of time, or space; i am oblivious to the rest, just the place in my head which he fills and the pressure of his hands around my skull.

He stops moving when he ejaculates, holding my head quite still although my tongue does not stop. I collect his flavour, scoop it into the back of my throat, roll the explosion of taste around my mouth to savour and remember.

I allow myself to purr quietly as his flesh softens and i hear his exhalation above me, carefully holding the roof of my mouth away from his sensitive glans yet still wanting to enclose him. I have moved from being the consumed to the consumer, the tension ridden from his legs and my jaw as the passage of foamy excess is given and received.

Still fully dressed i rest my face in his lap, kneeling on the floor up against the side of the bed, hips twisting slightly to relieve cramped toes curled up underneath my bottom, the denim skirt rucked up and tight around my thighs as restrictive as the rope that keeps my wrists behind my back.

I gingerly test the tender spot on my jaw, pressing flaming hot cheek to the marble of his naked thigh.

HNT/muffin love

A shadowy HNT. For various reasons i am too occupied to spend time making more explicit pictures, so for now i am just showing glimpses of an ordinary life (our Sunday afternoon walk along the village boundaries). I seem to have so little time at the moment - and i would like to concentrate on writing more smut. Perhaps. For more varied nekkidness, go visit Os.

Nigella Lawson's Jam Doughnut Muffins




Simplicity itself, beat liquid ingredients (milk, oil and egg, vanilla extract) together in a jug. Add to flour and caster sugar in a generous mixing bowl. I was rather disappointed with the unappetising batter, but these cakes proved to be so much more than the sum of modest parts.

I use a broad rubber spatula to mix wet and dry ingredients; you need a sure hand, but be very restrained. As soon as the flour is seen to be incorporated, ignoring flecks of raw flour or lumps, stop mixing otherwise your muffins will be tough.








A small spoonful of batter in 12 muffins cases (i could not resist these pale and pretty silicone ones), then a teaspoon of jam, and the remaining batter on top. 20 minutes later they emerge from a hot oven smelling sweet but still fairly unassuming.






The final step is a reduced version of nigella's excessiveness. Melt a couple of tablespoons of butter with the same of caster sugar, and, using a pastry brush, coat the top of each muffin with the granular syrup.

I had to physically hold my children back from the tray while they were too hot to eat, and the whole batch was eaten in less than the time we had taken to make and bake them.



Next i shall try these with a variety of fillings; perhaps lemon curd for Famulus, and i imagine An Artist Exposed's dark grape jam would work superbly. My son suggests nutella, while i am tempted by my kiwi and gooseberry jam which i usually add to my morning yoghurt. I think we will try a mixed batch tomorrow afternoon. Suggestions welcome.

turning ourselves inside out

"What are you wearing?" he asks in exasperation, his finger seeking a seam or easy opening between my thighs. I smile into his mouth, rubbing myself surreptitiously against his frustrated hand.

"I was cold, waiting" i apologise, before shifting my hips in the chair so he can pull the soft brushed cotton from my bottom, unpeeling my lower body, long pale legs revealed in the dim light. I immediately wrap my ankles back around his hips.

He doesn't bother removing my knickers, just hooks a finger around the gossamer covering, pushes them aside. The fabric is caught against his cock as he enters me, his fullness distorting and pulling at the lace so i have a cutting sensation across my mound, a thin ridge drawing a line from the heat of my clit, across my perineum and disappearing into the cleft of my arse with his body slotted in between. Everytime he shifts his pelvis i feel my knickers strain against his girth, pressure defining the junction of our coupling.

We merge beneath our clothes, physically connected before we are visibly stripped. His layers are slowly taken off while his hips rock between my open legs, his hands slipping into my vest to find puckering flesh, warmth and weight. The urgency is lost once he is inside me; instead we assume an easy exploration, knowing we have hours and hours ahead of us.

In the morning we both stir together at the peep of the alarm. I roll on to my side, press my bottom in to his lap; he fills me. We doze, mutually exhausted.

"You are happy as long as your cock is hot and wet" i mumble, and he begins that soft rhythm again, one arm across my hip, his hand on my bent knee pushed to my chest, the other hand in my hair, keeping me folded as he wishes me to be.

seepage

It wasn't the best timing.

A freshly laundered duvet, still warm from the tumble drier, light and fluffy, just a faint scent of my favourite detergent. Clean linen, sharply pressed .. and a new g-spot vibrator that perfectly replicates the stiff cupping shape of his 3 middle fingers. It feels like a trap door opening inside my cunt; a gentle springing release and a diffusion of warmth through my limbs, a soothing faintness, dizzy if i weren't lying down already. The seeping heat over my fingers, wetness pooling beneath me.

At least the sun was shining the following day with my washing once again flapping merrily on the line, pale flags proclaiming the abuse of my bed linen.